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“THE DEVIL" 

AND 

OTHER PARABLES 


Truths for the Times 

by 

Arthur B. Rhinow 



EDEN PUBLISHING HOUSE 


ST. LOUIS, MO. 


CHICAGO, ILL 



.VteTK 


Copyright 1923 
Eden Publishing House 
St Louis, Mo. 



©C1A752971 
Vfc' 


SEP 17 1923 



*\outTm ^--a-3 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Foreword . 5 

The Devil. 9 

Opium Religion. 14 

The Minister of the Church in the Other 

Block. 20 

During the Brooklyn Car Strike. 24 

The Minister's Malady. 28 

The Joy of Service. 38 

The Ring. 41 

Tradition . 43 

“Even as a Hen". 48 

From the Diary of a Modern Minister. 54 

The Practical Thing. 61 

Brother Martin. 63 

Making Time. 67 

Elijah . 70 

(Contents continued on next page) 

















CONTENTS 

(Continued) 

PAGE 

The Drummer's Disappointment. 75 

When He Omitted Shadrach’s Oration. 80 

The Cure. 84 

Going Home. 89 

A Youthful Fancy. 91 

He Felt the Stars Looking at Him. 93 

Cheap .105 

More Time for Herself.Ill 

The Wise One.115 

The Pale Faith.117 

The Boasters.121 

The Church.124 

The Spiritual Man.126 

The Smile.128 

Mr. Alberg’s Worry.132 

Covering Ground.137 


















FOREWORD 

From the very beginning of literature, the 
parable or fable has been a favorite vehicle for 
conveying moral or religious truth, because its 
direct appeal to human interest gave special force 
to the indirect suggestion which it carried. Some 
of the most sublime truths of the Bible are clothed 
in this form of speech. No other means could 
have been so effective when it became necessary 
to reprove David for his great sin in the matter 
of Uriah the Hittite, nor could any didactic state¬ 
ment about God's willingness to receive penitent 
sinners have had an effect at all equal to that pro¬ 
duced by that immortal piece of literature, the 
parable of the prodigal son. 

It is a matter of satisfaction, therefore, that 
the parable is coming into its own once more as 
a means of teaching moral and religious truth to 
the present generation, which is so desperately 
in need of religious teaching and at the same time 
so discouragingly hard to interest in religious 
thinking. No writer has shown greater skill in 
this direction during the past few years than 
Arthur B. Rhinow, pastor of Ridgewood Presby¬ 
terian Church, Brooklyn, New York, whose beauty 
and simplicity of style, combined with unusual 
breadth of sympathy and depth of spiritual • in- 


sight, has again and again charmed the readers 
of religious papers in various parts of the coum 
try. The present volume is a collection of some 
of the best products of his pen, including many 
which have not yet appeared in print, while those 
which have already been published deserve a 
thoughtful rereading. The parables cover a wide 
range of human life and experience and deal with 
a great variety of subjects which are of perennial 
interest to thoughtful people. 

The courtesy of those periodicals which kind¬ 
ly and readily gave permission to reprint the par¬ 
ables which have appeared in their respective 
columns ( Christian Century: The Smile; The 
Church; The Wise One; A Youthful Fancy; Bro¬ 
ther Martin; Tradition; Opium Religion.— The 
Continent: When He Omitted Shadrach’s Ora¬ 
tion; The Practical Thing; From the Diary of a 
Modern Minister. — Christian Endeavor World: 
Making Time; During the Brooklyn Car Strike; 
Elijah; Covering Ground. — The Outlook: The 
Devil.— Evangelical Herald: Mr. Alberg’s Worry; 
The Spiritual Man; The Boasters; The Pale Faith; 
He Felt the Stars Looking at Him; More Time for 
Herself; Cheap; The Drummer’s Disappointment; 
Going Home; The Joy of Service; The Minister’s 
Malady) is hereby gratefully acknowledged. 


St. Louis, Mo., May 21, 1923. 


J. H. H. 










THE DEVIL 


RI Ben Ahithophel came down from Jeru¬ 
salem to see the Prophet. He wondered 
why he had retired to the solitude when 
the people were asking for him. He 
found him sitting on a stone. A group 
of men were about him, men with hunger in their 
eyes. 

The scenery was one of contrasts. Rugged 
hills framing fields of flowers; in the distance the 
Jordan rushing southward. And the Prophet 
seemed to blend with it all. But Uri Ben Ahith¬ 
ophel saw none of that. 

“I have come to see you about your work/' 
he began. 

The Prophet looked up. 

“I think your work looks very promising. 
You have made a good start. Now what you need 
is somebody to manage your campaign. I have 

[9] 






10 


THE DEVIL 


had a good deal of experience in affairs like that, 
and I should like to—” 

A snake wriggled through the grass and dis¬ 
appeared in the jumble of rocks. 

“Now what you need, first of all,” Uri con¬ 
tinued after he had recovered, “is to gain the 
favor of influential people. As I said before, you 
have begun well. People are talking about you, 
and you know if you can get people to talk about 
you you have gained a great deal. They even say 
you have performed miracles. Now there is no 
reason why you shouldn't make a big success of 
your enterprise. And I say, the first thing to do 
is to get the backing of influential people. 

“Now there is Annas, the high priest, for in¬ 
stance. Believe me, he is the most powerful man 
in Israel. If you could get him to indorse you, 
that would help immensely. And of course some 
prominent Pharisee, also. Annas, you know, is 
a Sadducee, and you cannot afford to take sides. 
With two such leaders backing you, you could not 
fail. And I believe my connections would enable 
me to enlist that support. One only has to know 
how to approach men like that in the right way; 
and I have had experience. All I would ask you 
to do is not to say or do anything to offend them. 
That would never do. You understand that, of 
course. All the rest you can leave to me. And 


THE DEVIL 


11 


all I ask of you for myself is a promise to remem¬ 
ber me when you enter into your kingdom, so to 
speak. That’s all. 

“And believe me, without such men as Annas 
your enterprise will never amount to very much. 
Get the right people interested first.” 

The Prophet studied the lilies lovingly. 

“And after you have had the indorsement of 
those men,” Lri went on, “then you ought to be 
careful about the disciples you choose. Get men 
that are representative, men of the better classes, 
men that impress the people. Then you will be 
able to control means, and you know you cannot 
do anything without money. For instance, I am 
just now thinking of a certain rich young ruler. 
Fine fellow, and he has great possessions.” 

“The Prophet has chosen his disciples,” one 
of the men answered. There was a deep glow in 
his eyes, and he held a bag. 

“What kind of men are they?” the inter¬ 
viewer asked quickly. 

“Oh, Galilean fishermen, a publican, and 
other men of that kind.” 

Uri Ben Ahithophel shook his head. 

“Fishermen and publicans? That will never 
do. Why did he choose them?” 

“Because they believe in him.” 


12 


THE DEVIL 


“Well, that's all right so far as it goes. But 
this is a practical age, and we must be practical 
to succeed. Look at the way the Romans do 
things, and our own politicians. They're shrewd. 
And even a religious movement must be con¬ 
ducted in the right way. Imagine how Annas 
would launch a campaign like that. And it is 
very important to get the right kind of pe®ple 
to push things. You look as though you might 
be a help to him, but those other men are just 
muscle and dreams." 

Uri Ben Ahithophel again turned to the 
Prophet. He saw him take a reed and write on 
the ground. 

“There is something else I want to talk to 
you about," Uri continued. “I have heard people 
say that you were of Nazareth. Now I wouldn't 
advertise that too much. You know the people 
say, ‘Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?' 
And we must avoid anything that might offend 
the people. ‘Give the people what they want,' is 
the way to succeed. 

“Now, tell me," Uri went on, “is there not 
some other place with which you are associated 
by ties of something or other?" 

“He was born in Bethlehem," he with the bag 
volunteered. 

Uri Ben Ahithophel leaped up. 


THE DEVIL 


13 


“In Bethlehem?” he cried. “The very place! 
The birthplace of a king.” 

“He is of the seed of David.” 

“He is? Come, come, this is great. We shall 
begin the big demonstration at Bethlehem. Leave 
that to me. We shall advertise you as the son of 
David. That alone will give you popular applause. 
We shall speak of the glorious reign of David and 
Solomon, and that a scion of that illustrious house 
has come to them to lead them to—” 

The Prophet’s look silenced Uri Ben Ahitho- 
phel. He remained quiet for a long time. At 
first he had an unearthly feeling, then his mind 
reverted to the kingdoms of this world and the 
glory of them. He turned to the man with the 
glowing eyes. 

“Your master might win the whole country,” 
he said, “if he listened to reason; but—” 

He shook his head sadly, and left. 


OPIUM RELIGION 


E necessarily treat the news coming from 
Russia with reserve. If all the reports 
coming from that land of gloom and mys¬ 
tery were true, Mr. Lenine has more lives 
than a cat. But there is no reason why 
we should not comment on the news. Sermons 
have been preached on texts whose authenticity 
is questioned by the critics. 

We are told that placards have been displayed 
in Russia, telling the people that religion is the 
opium of the mind. Therefore discard religion. 

This has shocked many, and it certainly is a 
striking expression. The propaganda department 
of the Soviet seems to be efficient. What would 
it not do in case of war? We pity the enemy as 
we stop to think of it. For example, a slogan like 
“Kill the Calf,” meaning the golden calf, a gentle 
innuendo against plutocracy; to which the other 

[14] 








OPIUM RELIGION 


15 


side might reply with “Bare the Beast,” offering 
an opportunity for acrid punning. Then, indeed, 
would the leaders regret having disparaged re¬ 
ligion. For a certain kind of religion has always 
been a factor in mesmerizing the masses into can¬ 
non-fodder bravery. Think of what they might 
draw on in the Apocalypse in preparing for world 
conquest. 

All this I pondered as I leaned back in the old 
Morris chair, and my eyes began to blink. There 
were shadows on the wall, and presently I be¬ 
came aware that my old friend, the Guide in 
many reveries, was with me. We know each other 
too well to indulge in effusive greeting. 

“Surely that is a false statement,” I asserted 
inquiringly. 

He knew I referred to the statement that re¬ 
ligion is the opium of the mind. He seems to un¬ 
derstand me so much more readily than others. 
He smiled. 

“Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll answer 
you.” 

In a moment I was in a study. A slender 
young clergyman sat in a chair, and looked up 
eagerly at his brother minister, who was turning 
the leaves of a book aimlessly. 

“That is one of my textbooks,” the young man 


16 


OPIUM RELIGION 


volunteered. “I matriculated today, and the 
course begins on Monday. We shall take up the 
modern trend of philosophy.” 

The other man frowned. 

‘‘What do you want to take up such studies 
for?” he asked, with towering authority. “You 
have the whole truth in the Bible. Don't bother 
about anything alse.'' 

The Guide looked at me, and I began to un¬ 
derstand. 

“That's opium religion,” he said. “He has 
lost the open mind, and with it the open soul. His 
assurance is narcotic. Who knows only the Bible, 
does not know it. The Bible touches all of life, 
and all of life touches the Bible.” 

Suddenly the scene was changed. The in¬ 
terior of a magnificent church. Arches and domes 
and beautiful windows. Candles and incense. 
Now the people bow the head and repeat the 
Lord's Prayer. After the Amen, one almost hears 
a pious sigh sweep over the entire congregation, 
and yet nobody has given thought to the petition 
of the prayer. 

The Guide turned and our eyes met. I un¬ 
derstood. That was opium. 

He took me into a large room. Many articles 
were there. Fetishes, totems, idols, amulets. And 


OPIUM RELIGION 


17 


all along the sides were shelves and shelves of 
books, most of them looking like editions de luxe, 
and all of them covered with dust. 

“What are they?” I inquired. 

“Those are Bibles that are never opened,” he 
informed me. “Their owners believe they are re¬ 
ligious and under the care of Providence because 
they have a Bible in the house.” 

I nodded. I understood. 

Next I was taken to a little garret room, 
poorly furnished. Before a book sat a man who 
was reading like one famished. As he looked up, 
I saw that his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes 
were aglow with bigotry. Presently a little 
woman entered the room. She looked spent. He 
raised his head, and I interpreted the expression 
on his face as a mixture of resentment at having 
been disturbed and the pleasure of seeing his 
wife. 

“Ah, if you knew what beautiful thoughts 
are in this book,” he said ecstatically. “They are 
heavenly.” 

“Beautiful thoughts!” she inveighed, as in 
desperation. “Why don’t your beautiful thoughts 
make you do something? Your religion just 
makes you drunk. And I must make a living for 
you.” 


18 


OPIUM RELIGION 


Then the Guide took me to a portrait gallery. 
It was peculiar in that every portrait looked like 
a picture of Siamese twins. One face was proudly 
poised on fine shoulders, every line indicating con¬ 
fidence and initiative; while the other face, of 
the same man, was expressive of servile yielding 
and imitation. 

I asked for an explanation. 

“These are men who are successful in their 
professions. There they think for themselves. 
They have individual opinions on matters of poli¬ 
tics and sport and business; but on matters of re¬ 
ligion they do not think for themselves. In that 
realm their pet mottoes are: ‘My father and 
my grandfather were Methodists, and that's why 
I'm one.' ‘The church says so; that settles it.' 
‘The priest says so; I accept.' ‘This passage of 
Scripture is enough for me.’ " 

It was an interesting gallery; but we could 
not stay. 

Next I beheld a man leaning languidly against 
a tree on a very high precipice. Before him in 
the valley lay the city. On one side of the stream 
were mansions; on the other hovels. There was 
hauteur and hatred and crime. In the far distance 
a battle was being fought. 

But the man saw none of these. His mind 
was fixed on a vision of peace and bliss he saw 


OPIUM RELIGION 


19 


in the sky; and he muttered to himself, “This alone 
is real.” 

We seemed to travel through the air. Then I 
saw millions and millions of people. They looked 
like sheep having no shepherd. They could 
neither read nor write. On their faces I saw the 
expression of stupid piety. Priests and monks 
moved among them. They were dressed in long 
robes, and some of the people tried to kiss the 
hems of their garments. 

“This is called the God-fearing people,” the 
Guide remarked. 

“Why, this is Russia,” I exclaimed. 

And I awoke. 


THE MINISTER, OF THE CHURCH 
IN THE OTHER, BLOCK 

ATHER:—“Now, my boy, I want to give 
you a bit of advice. Mother has gone to 
the fruit store, and we are alone. So we 
can speak as man to man.” 

(The boy settles down in his chair, 
arranges the creases of his trousers, rests the 
ankle of his right leg on the knee of his left leg, 
caresses his silk sock, almost the identical shade 
of his tie, and with constrained patience prepares 
to listen to one of father’s outbursts of intimate 
oratory. Father is wonderfully fluent in the 
bosom of his family, where he usually occupies 
the “chair” and the “floor” at the same time, 
though he is extremely different outside of his 
home.) 

Son:—“All right.” 

Father (giving tone-quality to his voice) :— 

[ 20 ] 






THE MINISTER OF THE CHURCH 21 


“You are now at the age when a youth ought to 
think of choosing his profession. Now, I am not 
going to tell you what profession to choose, but I 
want to impress upon you to be courteous to a 
certain profession. I mean the ministry. Do you 
understand ?” 

(The son looks mystified, but his nod indi¬ 
cates that he vaguely understands.) 

“Now, the other day I saw you bumping 
into the minister of the church in the next block. 
You know where I mean. And you were so busy 
with the strings of your tennis racket that you 
hardly looked up, and I believe you failed to ex¬ 
cuse yourself.” 

Son:—“I said, 'Excuse me.’ ” 

Father:—“Well, I am glad to hear it. But 
don't interrupt me. I guess your father has a 
right to speak to you.” 

Son:—“Oh, certainly.” (He changes his posi¬ 
tion and begins to caress the other sock.) 

Father:—“I have always held that ministers 
must be treated with respect. Now, you can do 
a great deal to help that cause along, William. 
You are a brilliant boy. Of course, those last re¬ 
ports you brought home from high school were 
not exactly,—well, you know what I mean; but I 
believe it's just as you said. The teacher dislikes 


22 THE MINISTER OF THE CHURCH 


you. I would rather believe my child than any 
teacher. Now, as I said, you have a brilliant 
future.” 

(The boy has caught sight of the sporting 
page of the Sunday newspaper, spread out on the 
table. The father believes his son’s face is averted 
to give better attention.) 

Father (continues, tenderly) '“You may 
be president of a railroad some day, William. In 
that case, see to it that ministers get half fare. 
Or you may become the head of a large mercan¬ 
tile establishment. Then be sure to let the minis¬ 
ters have the customary discount. If you become 
a professional man—a doctor, a dentist, or a law¬ 
yer—don't charge the minister for your services. 
I heard an undertaker say only the other day, 
speaking of a certain minister, that he would be 
glad to bury him free of charge. Or if you be¬ 
come a gentleman farmer—the future is veiled, 
you know—always supply the village parsonage 
with plenty of vegetables. 

“You see, the minister is in a class of his own. 
Without churches we would soon drop to lower 
levels, and the minister is the leader. We ought 
to encourage him in every way. Now, I must 
confess I was annoyed when I saw you bump into 
the minister of the church in the next block, and 
I am glad you apologized.” 


THE MINISTER OF THE CHURCH 23 


Son:—“What kind of a church is that, 
father?” 

Father:—“That church?” (Takes off his 
glasses and thinks hard.) “Well, Til be switched. 
To think of it. A man as observant as I am. Well, 
you know how busy I am.—I think it's a Metho¬ 
dist church, though it might be a United Pres¬ 
byterian or an Episcopal church.” 

Son:—“IPs not Catholic. He doesn't wear 
that kind of a collar.” 

Father:—“Yes, I believe you are right. But 
I really couldn't tell you offhand what kind it is. 
Ask mother; she knows. I don't get to church 
very often, you know; but” (with unctuous em¬ 
phasis) “I believe in encouraging the minister.” 


DURING THE BROOKLYN 
CAR STRIKE 


ES, sir,” said the iceman to no one in 
particular. Rather was his remark de¬ 
signed to be of benefit to all within reach 
of his voice, and he made sure to give it 
carrying-power. He was always audible. 
If he had no one else to talk to, he would air his 
sentiments to his horses; and they were very 
patient. 

On this occasion, however, his horses were 
not present. They were in the stable. He had 
discovered something more lucrative than ped¬ 
dling ice. Not that he would neglect his custom¬ 
ers, but they would have to wait. If they com¬ 
plained, he would talk to them. 

The fact was, the motormen and the conduce 
tors of the Brooklyn Rapid Transit Company were 

[ 24 ] 




DURING THE CAR STRIKE 


25 


out on a strike, and whoever owned an automobile 
or a truck was engaged in carrying passengers to 
and from New York, charging prices that were 
right in his own eyes. And the iceman had taken 
his seven-passenger machine from the garage and 
joined the joyriders; that is, it was a joy to the 
owners. And so he stood there, near the curb, 
arguing, and occasionally urging passengers to 
step right into his car. 

“Yes, sir,” he repeated. “Talking of profi¬ 
teering, I can't see why the Government don't get 
after those robbers. They are robbers. Look at 
the way they used us common people when the 
war was on. 

“Step right in lady. We’re going to start as 
soon as I have enough people in the car. And that 
won't be long, you bet.—How much? Fifty cents 
to the Bridge.—What? Too much? Well, you 
don't have to, you know; but I guess you do have 
to. Of course you can ride in one of them trucks 
and stand all the way. Ha, ha! I guess you'd 
better step right in.—Thank you, lady. 

“Now, take the price of butter and eggs, for 
instance. You know, they've got butter and 
eggs stacked in them cold-storage houses by the 
million, just to keep up the price. Where's the 
Government? That's what I say. 

“Fifty cents, Mister.—Too much? Well, now, 


26 


DURING THE CAR STRIKE 


you see I can get it. And why shouldn't I, while 
the getting's good?—All right; I knew you'd 
come. It's a fine-riding car, too. 

“Look at shoes. Of course, we had to ship a 
lot of hides to Europe. That's so. The boy over 
in the shoe-store told me that himself. But you 
can't tell me that shoes have to be as high in price 
as they are today. That's nothing but profiteer¬ 
ing. That's all. And I don't see why Congress 
don't get after them. 

“All right! Step in, gentlemen.—Fifty cents. 
—What? Why, I heard of a man that had to pay 
two dollars to go from Myrtle and Broadway to 
Flatbush. And at first the chauffeur wanted 
three dollars. I ought to charge more. Maybe 
I'm a fool. The people will pay. They've got to 
go to New York. You must take things as they 
come. That's what I say. 

“Yes, sir, those robbers, those food barons. 
The farmers is getting more than their share, 
too; but I won’t say much to that. But take flour. 
Why, I could tell you some stories. I got a brother 
living in Minneapolis. And coal. Do you know, 

I believe there's lots of coal? And they're hold¬ 
ing it back to screw up the price. Those profi¬ 
teers ought to be strung up. Anyhow, they ought 
to go to the Island. 

“Just in time, ladies. Just two more seats 


DURING THE CAR STRIKE 


27 


left.—Fifty cents.—That’s what I said. And to¬ 
morrow I’ll charge more.—But you want to get 
there in time, don’t you?—Well, then, in you go. 
I tell you it’s cheap at that.—Everybody’s doing it. 

“Just think of it. They’re telling me that a 
suit of clothes will be ninety dollars next winter. 
What do you think of that? Profiteers, robbery! 
And where’s the Government?—Well, so-long.” 

While cranking the car, he rubbed his eye. 
Maybe he was trying to remove the beam. 


THE MINISTER'S MALADY 


strange malady had seized the Rev. 
Carter Kellogg. His wife tried to keep 
the knowledge of it from the people just 
as long as she could, but finally it had 
leaked out. Their beloved and dignified 

pastor! 

The ladies’ aid society demanded to be taken 
into confidence, and Mrs. Kellogg told the story, 
moistening every word with tears, after which 
she bent her gray head and covered her face with 
hands whose delicacy told of the starved cravings 
of culture. 

The malady had developed gradually, and at 
first the dear little queen of the parsonage and 
her daughters, Antoinette and Esther, were in¬ 
clined to treat it humorously. As it recurred 
month after month, however, they resented it, 
and finally they became sadly aware that father’s 
brain was affected in a most unusual manner. 




THE MINISTER’S MALADY 


29 


The family physician, Dr. Jack Antony 
Jackson, was puzzled. He stroked his beard 
meditatively for a long while, and yet he was 
puzzled. He had known Mr. Kellogg for many 
years and never dreamt of such a thing. He con¬ 
sulted a colleague of a neighboring town and at 
first indignantly rejected that gentleman’s advice, 
but finally yielded. 

Dr. Mosby suggested that the minister be 
followed on his recreation day, which, as a rule, 
he spent in the city. This seemed to be sinister, 
he admitted, but it was necessary, as modern 
medical diagnosis as well as the art of the detec¬ 
tive proceeded along the lines of elimination. 
Dr. Jackson acquiesced, not because he was a little 
man and his colleague a large man, but because 
any theory was welcome. He was perplexed. 

At the same time they decided to call in the 
New York specialist Dr. Felton Crosby, who was 
eminent in spite of his boyish face. He immedi¬ 
ately inspired the ladies with confidence by telling 
them the Latin name of what he thought was the 
malady. 

After they had heaved their sigh of comfort, 
they watched the great doctor with hopeful 
scrutiny, and soon suspected him of having a 
working theory. Which, indeed, he had. 

He was known for his duplicity in that he 


30 


THE MINISTER’S MALADY 


would nod approvingly at a colleague’s diagnosis, 
but would at the same time follow a theory of his 
own. He would excuse himself by claiming that 
his clues were of purely intuitive origin and would 
most likely be scorned by men who were accus¬ 
tomed to reason slowly and carefully according 
to the rules of scientific analysis. 

While, therefore, tacitly encouraging the sug¬ 
gestion that the minister be followed with the 
view to finding the source of his idiosyncrasy in 
some craving for amusement, he set to work along 
his own line, using his theory, intuitively given, 
as a working hypothesis. He began to question 
people that were intimately acquainted with the 
pastor, beginning with the members of his family. 
Before very long he was aware of another intui¬ 
tion. He was fond of deep things and he found 
Antoinette’s eyes unfathomable. He seemed to 
see them everywhere, even when his own eyes 
followed her as she left the room with the grace 
of one whom self mastery and mastery of others 
has made a princess. 

But what was the minister’s malady? We 
are reluctant in giving an account of it, for we 
are afraid it will prove mirth-provoking, while it 
was indeed very serious. 

Mr. Kellogg’s salary was one hundred dollars 
a month, besides the free use of the parsonage. 


THE MINISTER'S MALADY 


31 


Of this amount he gave his wife eighty dollars, 
according to a friendly understanding, while he 
kept twenty dollars for himself. Up to within six 
months he had always cheerfully surrendered his 
wife's allowance, always deploring that his own 
expenses were so high, economical though he was. 
But they got along very well, as well as ministers' 
families usually get along, and by the time the 
prices began to soar, Antoinette had found a posi¬ 
tion in the village high-school, and Esther, the 
vivacious girl who claimed to be able to love the 
world without loving the flesh and the devil, 
earned a handsome salary as bookkeeper of the 
only factory in town. 

One day when mother reminded father that 
he had not yet given her the money, he looked 
defiant. 

“You're not going to get that money out of 
me so easily," he answered. 

The mother looked amazed, seconded by her 
daughters. 

“Why, what do you want us to do?" Esther 
asked. Business life had developed a ready 
tongue. 

“I want you to go through a performance 
before I hand over the money." 

They thought it was a joke, and immediately 


32 


THE MINISTER'S MALADY 


began to contribute to what they regarded a fine 
bit of domestic hilarity. Antoinette recited the 
Dying Gladiator, and Esther executed a new set 
of calisthenics that came dangerously close to the 
Terpsichorean, after which the three ladies sang 
“The Same Old Ocean Washes East and West,” 
one of the popular successes of the better kinda 

“Now will you let mother have the money?” 
Antoinette asked her father, who seemed to be 
pleased with the performance. He shook his head 
stubbornly. 

“Where are the refreshments?” he asked. 

They laughed, and Esther went out for some 
ice cream. After they had eaten, father receiving 
a liberal portion, he handed his wife the eighty 
dollars with a smile. 

That was fun. But when he demanded a 
similar program every month, only ever more ex¬ 
acting, the family became alarmed. Something 
was wrong. They kept the secret for a long while, 
but finally it became like little Moses. It could 
no longer be hid. Then they consulted the phy¬ 
sician. 

The two physicians had the minister followed 
during his recreation days in the labyrinthine 
city. A semi-professional who had recently grad¬ 
uated with honors from a detective correspon- 


THE MINISTER’S MALADY 


33 


dence school, had offered his services, and he was 
very serious in his work. He made note of the 
fact that Mr. Kellogg walked up Broadway for 
almost an hour, watching the people and the show- 
windows. Then he went into Wanamaker’s, ate 
a hearty meal, and stayed for the afternoon con¬ 
cert. So far he had seen nothing unusual. 

The minister then left the department store 
and strolled along one of the side streets, evi¬ 
dently lost in thought. He came upon a church, 
still respectable looking, though it had evidently 
seen better days, for a canvas sign announced a 
social and supper for the benefit of the current 
expense fund. The minister stood and stared as 
though fascinated by the church, then turned 
away as with a wrench and ran as fast as his 
weight would allow, until he could turn the 
corner. The detective had a hard time keeping up. 

After the church was out of sight, the runner 
became a panting walker. He mopped his face, 
looked at his watch, walked to the station, and 
after a little wait boarded a train for home. 

When the detective made his report, the two 
physicians looked at each other gravely, and 
nodded with weighty sagacity. For a minister to 
run away from a church—that certainly looked 
suspicious. 

They told their findings to Dr. Crosby. That 


34 


THE MINISTER’S MALADY 


gentleman had spent a day in the village making 
inquiries of members of the church, and using a 
good deal of time in questioning Antoinette, who 
looked embarrassed but not very much spent by 
the ordeal. It was surprising how much infor¬ 
mation the nerve specialist got from Antoinette. 

“What did Mr. Crosby ask you?” Mrs. Kel¬ 
logg inquired of her daughter. 

“Oh, so much. He’s a heart specialist, too.” 

“Is he? Does he think something is the mat¬ 
ter with father’s heart?” 

“No.” 

“No? that’s good.” 

After the two physicians had made their re¬ 
port to the specialist, they ventured an opinion. 
They thought the minister needed watching. 

“I think he needs a vacation,” was his reply. 

“Well, now,” ventured Dr. Jackson, “don’t 
you think it is suspicious for a minister to run 
away from a church?” 

“It is,” Dr. Crosby drawled. “But what will 
you say when you see him run away from his 
own church?” 

Their eyes were interrogative. 

“Be patient with me just a little longer,” he 
pleaded, “I think I understand the case. I am a 


THE MINISTER’S MALADY 


35 


minister’s son. And I am interested in Dr. Kel¬ 
logg. He has such a lovely—family. I cannot ex¬ 
plain to you right now. Be patient a little 
longer.” 

They nodded. They knew him. 

The next Sunday morning, the early arrivals 
for the church service were surprised to find a 
large sign announcing an oyster supper with 
songs, drills, and other attractions, for the benefit 
of the church. There was much questioning as 
to who had arranged for such an evening’s enter¬ 
tainment, though no one questioned the propriety 
of it. They were used to it. 

Automobile after automobile arrived, the 
hubub grew more voluminous. At one corner of 
the shed Dr. Crosby was talking to his colleagues. 

“There comes the minister,” said one of the 
young men. 

Mr. Kellogg walked slowly, his massive head 
bent in meditation. He had a fine face with 
strong features. He approached the church, 
bowing friendly greetings to his parishioners. 
When he saw the sign he stared, pressed his hands 
to his head, turned about, and ran up the street 
toward his house. 

The people were astonished, and the physi¬ 
cians nodded approvingly at Dr. Crosby. 


36 


THE MINISTER'S MALADY 


That specialist mounted the steps of the 
church and raised his hand, beckoning silence. 

“Friends," he began, “I have concluded my 
diagnosis of your pastor's malady. I have been 
greatly helped by my colleagues and by the fact 
that I am a minister's son. 

“I have learned by diligent inquiry that you 
have raised much of the money to meet the church 
expenses by entertainments and fairs, and this 
has finally gotten on your pastor's nerves. It has 
affected him in a two-fold manner. On the one 
hand he is so disgusted with such means of secur¬ 
ing the church's revenue that he runs away from 
every church bearing a sign announcing an en¬ 
tertainment or bazaar. On the other hand a sub¬ 
tle, subconscious reasoning tells him that as he 
does not receive his money without entertainment, 
he ought not to give it without entertainment. 

“Now, my dear friends, I am very much, I 
am personally interested in this case." Very few 
noticed the blush. “And I want to help. Your 
pastor needs a vacation. I have a mountain lodge 
in the Adirondacks. There he will soon recover. 
And I hope to be able to make him feel at home 
in that lodge as often as he cares to make use of 
it." It was probably the excitement that again 
colored his face. 

“But you must do your share. I have found 


THE MINISTER’S MALADY 


37 


out how much my—your pastor is to you. You 
must make him feel at home. Less suppers and 
bazaars to raise his salary. You must become 
givers, proportionate givers, as the Lord has pros¬ 
pered you. We all have been stingy with the 
church. We have treated it more shabbily than 
our coffee merchant.” 

The calm that followed the bold speech grew 
intense when the people saw Dr. Crosby offer his 
arm to Antoinette and both walk toward the par¬ 
sonage. Then, however, the storm broke loose. 
But it cleared the atmosphere for a finer day in 
the good old church and for a higher appreciation 
of the beloved minister. 


THE JOY OF SERVICE 


T was very quiet in the church, the clock 
only keeping up its continual tick-tock. 
The pews stood about like rows of veteran 
soldiers, not saying a word; the organ 
seemed asleep; and the Bible presided 
with silent dignity. 

Now, however, a whispering was heard in 
one of the corners, where a hymn-book had care¬ 
lessly been left in a pew. 

“You have no business here,” said the pew. 
“Why are you not with the stack?” 

“I don't know,” answered the hymn-book, 
“but I don't see that you have anything to say 
about it. You are not my superior. What do you 
do to entitle you to such mastery?” 

“What do I do? Why, without me the peo¬ 
ple could hardly stand the service, especially if it 
were long. I afford rest to the worshipers.” 

“I know,” answered the hymn-book, with a 
superior smile; “you ask people to sit down, but 
I give them something that makes them feel like 
rising and fighting a good fight.” 

[38] 




THE JOY OF SERVICE 


39 


“You are putting on airs,” the pew sneered. 

“That well becomes me; and my airs have 
helped thousands.” 

Their quarrel had become loud enough to 
rouse the organ from its drowse, and it had heard 
the last remark also. 

“Do you remember,” the organ said to the 
hymn-book, “the last time the people tried to sing 
your airs without me? It was a miserable fail¬ 
ure. What would the church do without me!” 

“But I am older than you,” the hymn-book 
proudly replied. “People sang before they had 
you.” 

A ray of sunshine, which had been listening, 
now joined the speakers. 

“Talking of age,” it said in its kind way, “I 
can say that I am older than you all.” 

“Older than I?” asked the Bible. 

“Oh, much older,” answered the ray. 

The hymn-book and pew still glared at each 
other, and the Bible was just about to tell the ray 
of its ancient days, when it heard footsteps, and 
said, “Hush!” 

A group of children entered the church. Men 
and women followed. The organist arrived and 
began to play. Then the organ felt happy. “If 
only I can please him and the people, today,” it 
said. 


40 


THE JOY OF SERVICE 


A rich man sat down in the quarrelsome pew, 
and as he came down with a sigh of satisfaction, 
the pew felt good to have pleased some one. The 
man took the hymn-book and was about to open it 
when he saw a poor woman, sitting near him, 
who had no book. He walked over to her, and 
handed her his own, and when the poor woman 
looked thankful both the rich man and the hymn- 
book were glad to have made some one happy. 
And when, during the singing, the poor woman 
dropped a tear on the book, it did not mind it at 
all. 

A cloud passed over the sun, and the old men 
and women could not read. But in a few moments 
the bright rays again burst through the windows, 
and they looked so cheerful, no doubt, because 
they could fill others with cheer. 

When the pastor opened the Bible, and said, 
“I shall read you a chapter from the Book of Life,” 
all the people were eagerly listening, some of them 
as though they were hungry for the words. Then 
the Bible no longer thought of its antiquity; it 
just felt happy in giving its comforting secrets to 
sad and seeking hearts. 

And thus they all were happy in serving. And 
their quarrel ? What was it they were quarreling 
about? 


THE RING 


HE feasting was over, and the last sounds 
had retired, leaving a kiss on the sunken 
but now flushed cheeks of the prodigal. 
The night was beautiful. 

The brothers were alone. The elder 
was less sullen, but not yet reconciled. 

“But why the ring?” he demanded. 

The prodigal looked up questioningly. 

“The ring?” he repeated, as though groping 
to understand. 

“Yes, the ring.” The eyes were defiant, but 
they softened when he saw the marks of his 
brother's suffering. 

“I can understand why father gave you a 
new robe, for you were in tatters; and sandals, 
for your feet were bare and bruised; and food, 
for you were famished. But a ring? Did you 
need a ring?” 



[41] 










42 


THE RING 


The prodigal looked away, out at the stars, 
his companions of many a night, when he was 
homeward bound, rehearsing his confession. They 
seemed to understand. 

He did not answer, but he kissed the ring. 

The elder brother urged. 

“Why the ring?” the prodigal answered 
softly. “Brother, I was in need of the ring more 
than anything else.” 

The elder brother was puzzled. 

“I was thankful for the robe and the sandals 
and food; but, when my hand felt the ring, I 
knew I had my father's love, the old love of my 
childhood. I was accepted not as a hired servant, 
but as his child.” 

The wind was whispering to the palms, and 
the elder brother began to feel the beauty of the 
night. The prodigal touched his brother's arm. 

“I have come back to you and father and to 
God. And, brother, God too gave me a ring. He 
gives not merely things and thoughts. He gives 
his love, himself, to those that need him and want 
him.” 

God is not merely a system of laws or an un¬ 
conscious soul of the universe. He is the Father, 
a person; and he offers his children the ring of 
his love. And that is just what we need. 


TRADITION 


OHN Stone purchased a rare old volume 
from an antiquarian. He had it carefully 
cleaned by expert hands, and was de¬ 
lighted with the cover. The contents of 
the book related to medieval fables, and 
were of little value. Ah, but the cover! The 
beauty of the grained leather was set off by 
slightly impressed points and lines of gold, and 
in the middle was stamped a picture of David with 
his harp. A bibliophile told Mr. Stone that the 
volume might have belonged to Jean Grolier, a 
famous collector in the time of Francis I. 

The owner was very much impressed. 

“This must become an heirloom in the Stone 
family,” he mused. 

He admired the cover over and over again, 
and came to the conclusion that so rare a treasure 
ought to be protected. He decided to have it 






44 


TRADITION 


covered, do lie asked a book-binder to rebind it 
in son learner. 

Wlien it was finished it was very presentaoie. 
lire coior was a ncn maroon, and tne workman- 
snip was penect. Mr. Stone, liowever, was not 
satisned. Wlnie tire second cover was to be merely 
a protection, he thought it ought to be ornamen¬ 
tal enough to serve as an introduction to the 
beauty of the original, so to speak. Of course, 
very few besides himself knew of the treasure be¬ 
neath the maroon, and very few were to know it, 
but even the exterior of a book of that value ought 
to be artistic. So he had an artist paint a coat 
of arms on it, a conception of his own, in which 
a stone figured prominently. 

John Stone died suddenly. His son, Henry 
Stone, found the book and was delighted with the 
cover. He found the volume in the private drawer 
of his father’s desk, and he concluded that the 
book had been very dear to him. Of course, he 
would keep it and cherish it as an heirloom. In 
fact, it was too precious to be left unprotected. 
So he made up his mind to have it covered with a 
cloth binding. Just as a protection, to be sure, 
but secure, as artistic as possible, for the volume, 
so dear to his father, was precious to him. The 
bookbinder, cautioned and encouraged by prom¬ 
ises of reward, did his very best, so that even 


TRADITION 


45 


Henry Stone was delighted. It was too sacred a 
matter to talk of to any one, and the volume was 
locked away. War broke out, and Henry Stone 
died on the field of battle. 

“Look at this volume of old legends,” the exe¬ 
cutor said to young Samuel Stone. “What a thick 
cover; but a pretty one. Your father must have 
thought a great deal of the old book. He kept it 
with his valuables.” 

Samuel Stone agreed that it was a pretty 
cover. And he revered the book. On the title 
page he found the names of his father and grand¬ 
father, and the volume became venerable to him. 
He decided to have it covered. 

“Just to protect the cover,” he confided to 
the binder; “but, of course, firm enough to give 
it a permanent appearance.” 

The binder was going to make objections, but 
he was cut short by Samuel, whose possessions 
made him a man of authority. It was just a pa¬ 
per cover, but it was beautiful. The color was a 
soft purple, and the names of John Stone, Henry 
Stone, and Samuel Stone were embossed in gold, 
truly a royal combination. The craftsman was 
paid a handsome sum, and the book was laid aside 
in a safe place. 

Samuel Stone was hot-blooded. Books had 
little attraction for him. He was sorry there were 


46 


TRADITION 


no wars at the time. He tried to satisfy his pas¬ 
sions in various ways, and finally died of a sword 
cut received in a duel. 

One day the widow sat by the fire and wept 
over a beautifully bound book which the man of 
law had handed her. The three names embossed 
on the cover were dear to her, especially the last, 
that of her husband. Charles Stone, heir to the 
estate, sat on the floor, carving a boat, despite 
the gentle protests of his mother. He had the 
stubborn spirit of the Stones. 

As she wept, she laid the book on a chair be¬ 
side her, and gave rein to memory. The cover 
attracted the boy. What in all the world was finer 
to try his new knife on than this pretty book. A 
longing seized him to cut out those bright let¬ 
ters and play with them. So he cut, and cut 
deeply. 

“Charles, what are you doing?” the mother 
cried in alarm. “The heirloom! Oh, how could 
you! This book was very precious to your father. 
He revered it. He kept it with the jewels of the 
family.” 

Charles did not understand, but he was anx¬ 
ious for further developments. Meanwhile the 
mother noticed another cover beneath the pretty 
one, and another beneath that. She wondered. 
The butler asked an expert antiquarian to call. 


TRADITION 


47 


When the latter came and began to peel, his cheeks 
flushed. He removed the paper cover, and they be¬ 
held the cloth cover. He removed the cloth cover, 
and they saw the leather with the artistic coat 
of arms of almost a hundred years ago. That 
was taken off, and their eyes feasted on the quiet 
beauty of the original. 

The antiquarian was enrapt. 

“And to think of it,” he exclaimed. “Each 
generation revered a layer of less value.” 


EVEN AS A HEN” 


HIS morning there was a commotion in the 
chicken run that threatened to become 
truculent. 

For several days we had kept the lit¬ 
tle chicks that had peeped and labored 
their way out of the white shells, unappreciative 
of the brooding warmth, in the sun room; and al¬ 
though a few of them died, the rest throve nicely. 
For the adults as well as the children it was a 
succession of thrills to see the little ones gathered 
under the wings of the mother hen, a wonder that 
gave a figure of speech to the yearning and burn¬ 
ing love of Jesus. 

Last night, however, we domiciled the hen and 
her brood in the little coop in the corner of the 
run. When the morning brightened, the chickens 
of the main compartment filed out, the hens de¬ 
murely as beseems them, and the roosters with 
stately poise, which seems to be their prerogative. 

[48] 





“EVEN AS A HEN” 


49 


From the smaller coop at the other end of 
the enclosure emerged the mother hen with her 
chicks, just about four days old. The other chick¬ 
ens were surprised. Evidently there were two 
armies in one camp. And a deep though errone¬ 
ous instinct told them they were hostile armies. 
What made them think so is very hard to tell, for 
there was room enough for all of them. To 
ruminate on the origin of that instinct would land 
us in very deep water, and not everybody can 
swim. The writer himself is well aware of his 
limitations. Suffice it to say that this instinct 
antedates chickens and has not yet been overcome 
by man. 

However, they stood there and glared at each 
other. 

The older hens and roosters said, “What do 
these newcomers want? Dispute our realm? 
Scratch on the soil that belongs to us ? Eat of the 
food that is given to us? They have no business 
here. We rule here; they are usurpers. This is 
our country; they are foreigners. Out with 
them.” 

And the mother of the little ones said, “1 
know they hate my brood, my darling brood. I 
know they will peck them and kill them if I do not 
defend them.” 

And although she had never attended a mili- 


50 “EVEN AS A HEN” 

tary school, she resolved at once to defend by at¬ 
tacking. 

She attacked with fury. The history of the 
initial onslaught will never be written, as the re¬ 
porters, strange to say, had had no inkling, and 
the film man was absent. Battles are still fought 
in the world that are missed by the movie enter¬ 
prise. 

When one of us arrived, being drawn by the 
tumult of battle, she saw the mother hen drag 
one of the other hens through the dust, the rest 
of the enemy huddled in the corner, cackling and 
crowing in horror. 

Now, according to reliable statistics, there 
were seven full grown chickens on the one side. 
That is to say, the hens were old enough to en¬ 
courage their owners to regard the laying of the 
first egg as imminent, and the roosters were be¬ 
ginning to crow. This, however, is where the re¬ 
liability of statistics ceases. We are not yet sure 
just how many of them are roosters, even though 
they have been under observation for a long time. 
We had picked out one, but some of the neighbors 
smiled at our being so unsophisticated. They 
pointed out at least three roosters. And the other 
day, a minister from a neighboring church called, 
on a purely professional matter. He is a musician 


“EVEN AS A HEN” 


51 


and a married man, and he knows a great deal 
about the harmonies of life. 

He looked through the wire screening, 
blinked, and looked again, and then asserted that 
in his opinion there were four roosters and three 
hens. Of course, he assured us, he had no zeal in 
the matter and would not endeavor to force his 
opinion on us, but he could not well do otherwise 
than stand by what he conscientiously regarded 
as the truth. 

What could we do? We could not be dis¬ 
courteous to our visitor, especially as he is a stout 
man and the mental concentration had made him 
perspire. Besides, he might be right. On the 
other hand, it would not do to antagonize the 
neighbors, who are very close to us in New York, 
almost upon us. 

So we were silent, the more as the exact num¬ 
ber of roosters will not materially affect the moral 
of the story. Let us compromise and say there 
were three. There they stood in all their mascu¬ 
line strength and pride, the hens looking to them 
for leadership in strategy and attack, and not a 
Foch among them. Huddled in a heap, they 
crowded into the corner, smitten with fear. Had 
it not been for the wire wall, the possibilities of 
their flight would have been infinite, at least sev¬ 
eral blocks. 


52 


“EVEN AS A HEN” 


Four hens and three roosters cowed. By 
what? By one hen. And what made her so for¬ 
midable? A great cause. A mother defending 
her children. I suppose in war we call that mo¬ 
rale; inspired by the cause for which one fights, 
making one man equal to five. 

That is why it has happened a thousand times 
in the course of history, when Biam declared war 
on Triam, that they did not tell the people, the 
fighters, the real cause of the war, namely, some 
weak monarch's wounded vanity or the aggran¬ 
disement of the House of Highlivers, but they in¬ 
vited a “patriotic” cause, often nothing more than 
a balderdash slogan of the flag and the defence 
of the country. It was almost always made out 
to be a defensive war. Something like Demos- 
thenizing the earth to take possession of the moon 
lest the strong races of some other planet get 
there first and turn off the light, leaving us noth¬ 
ing but starlight for our evening strolls through 
the country. 

Such fictitious causes will lose their drawing 
power, however. They have almost lost them now. 
If ever again a nation wants to hurl its subjects 
into a cruel conflict without a cause that is ob¬ 
viously just, the leaders will have to be very in¬ 
ventive to find a pretext that will fool the people. 
Republics may have the advantage, because they 


“EVEN AS A HEN” 


53 


have more general elections, and elections furnish 
excellent opportunities for slogan camouflage. On 
the other hand the people will be the better trained 
in detecting deceit. However, we venture to pre¬ 
dict the addition of a secretary of slogans to the 
various cabinets in the event of another great 
war. 

But that does not invalidate the theory that 
a great cause inspires us with wonderful strength. 
Look at Thermopylae, at the Ironsides of Crom¬ 
well, the Swiss in their mountains of freedom, 
look at the Geusen of Holland, look at Valley 
Forge. 

And behold the prophets who defied kings 
and nations, the apostles who obeyed God more 
than men, the Savonarolas making princes quake. 
Follow the martyr trail of the missionaries, all 
red and gold. The inspiration of a great cause is 
the secret of their heroism. They found life worth 
while because they lived for something worth 
while. 


FROM THE DIARY OF A MODERN 
MINISTER 


ONDAY, February 28—Bad case of brain¬ 
fag this morning. But I expected it. I 
preached so hard yesterday that I was 
tired out. I must find more time for pre¬ 
paring. Whenever I am poorly prepared 
I preach hard. When I am well prepared, I am 
at ease. Some people compliment me, but I know 
better. And when old Mrs. Grimm, good old 
soul, told me she always feels edified by the sound 
of my voice, I felt ashamed of myself. Well, 
Easter is near, I intended to preach a series of ser¬ 
mons on the triumphal entry into Jerusalem. I 
shall be ready. 

Ready for my stroll this afternoon. Going 
into the woods to study barks and leaves. Mr. 
Swift just called up and said that Mr. and Mrs. 
Burns had not been in church for two Sundays 

[54] 







FROM THE DIARY OF A MINISTER 55 


and he had heard that they were disgruntled about 
something. And that Sam Taylor had been ab¬ 
sent from his Sunday school class for several 
weeks. I shall have to see him. He is a good 
worker, but so easily offended. 

Dropped in to see the Burnses on my way to 
the woods—but I never got to the woods. Spent 
two hours with Mrs. Burns. Told me she and her 
husband stayed away to see if they would be 
missed. She thinks our people are very cold, and 
there is too much favoritism shown in our church. 
Told me about the church they belonged to be¬ 
fore they came to us. There the people are so dif¬ 
ferent ; they are so cordial, and it was “Mrs. Burns 
here and Mrs. Burns there.” And the services 
were so impressive. The minister always came to 
church in a silk hat. When I asked her why she 
left there, she just answered: “Oh, well—.” I 
think she will be in church next Sunday. 

Wonder if there are any violets in the woods. 

Went to the supper of the Pollyanna Club to¬ 
night. I didn't know they wanted me to make an 
address, but I might have expected it. The ladies 
all said it was a fine speech; but what did I say? 
Something about a silver lining; that's all. But 
I guess that is what they want; though, really, 
it's the cloud itself that brings the blessing. 

Now about my sermon. Oh, well, I still have 


56 FROM THE DIARY OF A MINISTER 


five days. Hope I sleep well tonight. But I wish 
I could have been with the barks and leaves. 

Tuesday, March 1—Thought I could spend a 
morning in my study. It is as dear to me as any 
place in the world. A telephone call urges me to 
come to the Home for the Aged. Some trouble 
there; work for the committee on discipline. 

Returned in time for lunch. Spent the whole 
morning in the Home. Some of the members of 
the committee were late, and the case was com¬ 
plicated. 

Did not look at my mail this morning. Now 
that I do, it is all bills, and the budget of the 
month is heavy—heavy for a minister. Feel cross 
at the thought of always being in cramped cir¬ 
cumstances. Even my books irritate me. 

Funeral of Henry Moulder. A few calls. 
Meeting of the men’s club. Well, tomorrow morn¬ 
ing I’ll start on my sermon. 

Wednesday, March 2—Much mail, most of it 
from the boards and committees of the General 
Council. Almost every letter marked “impor¬ 
tant.” I felt that I ought to read it all, though 
it took time. Also questionaries for the annual 
report of the church. This will mean much work. 

Mr. Spencer brought me a book and asked me 
to read it if I would be so kind. “As soon as pos- 


FROM THE DIARY OF A MINISTER 57 


sible, please.” Because he had had an argument 
with a friend who had been captivated by the con¬ 
tents. I promised to read it. It may open an op¬ 
portunity for pastoral work. 

Read part of the book. Written by a western 
clergyman who tries to prove with subtlety and 
boldness, mostly the latter, that the impending 
coming of Christ is not the second but the third. 
The book is shot through with Bible verses. The 
writer waxes warm over his subject, and his in¬ 
vectives against the "second-comers” are sixteen- 
inch shells. Now, I hope nobody will try to prove 
that the expected coming is the fourth. But I 
guess the third-comers will have their day; every¬ 
thing presented with boldness has its day. 

I am glad Christ has come to me. 

Called on Elizabeth Wellen, poor cripple. 
Prayer meeting. I'll try to think of my sermon 
in bed. But I'm afraid I'll soon fall asleep; I am 
tired. 

Thursday, March 3—Papers are full of pre¬ 
parations for inauguration day. Good introduc¬ 
tion to my sermon, showing the difference between 
the president coming to Washington and Christ 
entering Jerusalem. I know some will call it 
catchy. But I want more. I'd like to preach a 
good sermon next Sunday. 

Painter called to see the church, in order to 


58 FROM THE DIARY OF A MINISTER 


give an estimate on interior decorating. Had a 
long talk with him. Prided himself on the piety 
of his wife's relations. 

Meeting of the ladies' aid society. The chair¬ 
man asked for my views on the coming May fair, 
and elicited my promise to help. My views ap¬ 
plauded. Oh, I am popular; but I often feel as 
though I were missing the real thing. I'll have to 
get at my sermon tomorrow. 

Attended a meeting of the Red Cross advisory 
council. Suggested that I might send a represen¬ 
tative to take my place, but the offer was not ap¬ 
proved. “It is your personality we want, Rev¬ 
erend." 

Friday, March 4—Papers are full of the in¬ 
auguration festivities. Was “visited" by the most 
genial book agent I have ever met. I was adaman¬ 
tine to all his blandishments and arguments, but 
I almost broke down when I saw his look of utter 
commiseration. To think of depriving myself of 
so valuable an addition to my library! To think 
of foregoing the equipment of the Ancient and 
Modern Encyclopedia of Homiletics! Now, how¬ 
ever, after some reflection, I believe he will re¬ 
cover. Wondered if we ought not to be as aggres¬ 
sive. But we certainly cannot use the same meth¬ 
ods, we have a different commodity. The best 
way of doing our work is to let the divine stream 


FROM THE DIARY OF A MINISTER 59 


flow through us into other hearts. And that would 
rather preclude the aggressiveness of the drum¬ 
mer. 

Mr. Anderson telephoned, asking me over to 
his place to discuss the Easter Sunday school pro¬ 
gram. 

Received a letter from Mrs. De Mott, telling 
me that she would have to leave the church if we 
received that “impossible” Mrs. Walberg. Said 
she had trouble with her in her former church. 
“Utterly incompatible.” That is a problem. Mrs. 
Walberg seems to be a refined woman of quiet 
force, but I should not like to see Mrs. De Mott 
leave. She has a following. 

Spoke at the Christian Endeavor rally in Al¬ 
lison Memorial church. Came home late, but sat 
in my study for a little while to brood over my 
sermon. 

Saturday, March 5—Went to placate Mrs. De 
Mott. Called on her in the morning to make sure 
to find her in. She certainly has a splendid re¬ 
pertoire to characterize persons with whom she 
is on terms of incompatibility. She dislikes Mrs. 
Walberg, but all the reasons she gives for doing 
so amount to “because.” Her antipathy evidently 
has some hidden spring. How candor would lu¬ 
bricate the wheels of life. 

Alexander Small called just as I was going to 


60 FROM THE DIARY OF A MINISTER 

settle down to work on my sermon. He represents 
the Boy Brothers, a new organization for boys, 
with military, gymnastic, outdoor, literary and 
also religious features. Took two hours of my 
time to impress on me the necessity of introducing 
this organization, the Bee Bees, into my church. 
No church is up to date without it, it fills a long 
felt want, and surpasses everything that has ever 
gone before. I told him we had too many organi¬ 
zations now, but he smiled and assured me that 
Boy Brothers was something different. When he 
left, I found myself perspiring. 

I shall have to stay up late tonight to work 
on my sermon. 

I had forgotten. Mr. Clarke came and re¬ 
minded me of the committee on new hymn books. 
The men could not meet at any other time. 

Just got home. It is late. Find notices on 
my desk earnestly soliciting my presence at the 
community council executive session on Tuesday 
afternoon, at the luncheon of the Mighty Good 
Club Wednesday noon, and at the meeting of the 
committee of twenty-five on Friday evening, to 
prepare for the union revival services to be con¬ 
ducted by Tom Tussler, the converted prizefighter, 
and Blind Jennie, the girl evangelist. 

Tomorrow's sermon—the Lord help me! 


THE PRACTICAL THING 


HE Secretary of the National Emergency 
Commission looked up from his papers, 
turned in his swivel chair, and asked the 
stenographer to take a letter. 

“I want this letter to go to all the 
churches in the country,” he said with fine feeling. 

After a pucker and a gaze into the unseen 
he began to dictate. 

“To the Churches of America. 

“Dear Friends, 

“It is with profound gratitude that the men 
in public life, particularly the men of large re¬ 
sponsibility in the late crisis, acknowledge their 
indebtedness to the churches for their splendid co¬ 
operation in the emergencies of the cruel war, in 
eluding their help in the various drives: Liberty 
Loan, Red Cross, Y. M. C. A., Y. W. C. A., Sal¬ 
vation Army, and others. 

[61] 







62 


THE PRACTICAL THING 


“Indeed, we believe that without your valued 
assistance, moral and material, the final outcome 
of the war would have been doubtful. We feel 
more than ever that we need the church. 

“Allow us to assure you of our highest appre¬ 
ciation. The history of these trying years will 
have to report that the churches were tried and 
not found wanting.” 

There was a pause. The brow puckered 
again, and the eyes gazed intently. 

“That letter isn’t complete. I want to say 
something else.” He addressed partly the win¬ 
dow shade and partly the stenographer. “I would 
like to say something striking; something prac¬ 
tical. Can’t you suggest something?” 

As the window shade remained silent, the 
stenographer felt it incumbent upon himself to 
reply. He coughed. 

“Would you care to say that in view of your 
recognition of the high value of the church, the 
public men feel themselves morally obliged to be¬ 
come more regular in their attendance of church 
services? I know the churches would like—.” 

“Well, I—I don’t—you see— By the way, 
what time is it?— What do you think of that? 

I am late for my appointment. Put that letter 
aside for the present. We’ll take it up again, when 
I have a convenient season.” 


BROTHER MARTIN 


UTHER is drowsy. He is working on his 
war sermon against the Turks, for the 
enemy of Christendom has reached the 
walls of Vienna, and Europe trembles. 
Did not Constantinople fall less than a 
hundred years ago? 

On the old desk, before him, lies the manu¬ 
script, every letter bearing testimony to a master¬ 
ful hand. He calls the Turks Gog and Magog, and 
appeals to his countrymen to fight the common 
enemy with the bravery displayed by their fore¬ 
fathers in staying the Romans. He asks them to 
march under the banner of the emperor, to whom 
God has entrusted the authority of temporal 
power. 

He has written with the fire of a prophet. But 
now he feels drowsy, and his head nods. He be¬ 
gins a reverie of Worms, and Spires, and Mar¬ 
burg. 



[63] 





64 


BROTHER MARTIN 


i , 

The massive head jerks up. Ah, yes, the 
Turks! He seizes the quill again. But the strain 
of hard work is asserting itself, and he nods again. 

There! Was that Philip Melanchthon calling 
him? No; the voice was softer, like a gentle purr. 

“Martin!” 

Luther looks up. It is late in the afternoon, 
near November. Who is that standing over there 
near the door? A monk in the garb of the Au- 
gustinian order. Luther smiles. 

“Brother Martin!” the voice pleads. 

“What is it, brother?” 

“I have come to advise you. You are making 
a big mistake.” 

“Are you with us or against us,” asks the 
voice that is feared by princes. 

“I want to advise you for your own good. You 
are making a big mistake.” 

“What mistake?” Even the voice seems to 
bristle. 

“Martin, Martin! You are a good man, and 
a prophet. But you don’t know much of the ways 
that lead to victory. You are as innocent as a 
dove, but in addition you ought to be as wise as a 
serpent. You know that is the great injunction. 

“Now, look here!” The visitor draws nearer. 


BROTHER MARTIN 


65 


It is growing darker. The eyes of Luther are 
strangely luminous. 

“Here you are preparing a sermon against 
the Turks,” the velvet tones proceeded; “and 
really they are your friends. So long as the Turks 
batter against the walls of Christendom, the em¬ 
peror cannot carry out the decree of Worms and 
the wishes of the Pope. The Lutheran heresy— 
he smiled understanding^—has a chance to take 
deeper root and grow and spread so long as the 
crescent can keep the cross busy. And here you 
are urging your countrymen, even the Protestants, 
to fight with the emperor against the Turk. Par¬ 
don me, Martin; but that is foolish of you. A 
great man like you ought to be more of a general. 
You could afford to send secret emissaries to en¬ 
courage Solyman and his generals.” 

Luther fumbles the ink bottle. 

“Look at the king of France,” the visitor 
continues. “He is a shrewd man. His aim is to 
weaken the power of the emperor, and to that end 
he befriends the Protestants of Germany. Per¬ 
sonally he does not like you and your friends. His 
heart is Catholic. In his own country he would 
look with scant favor upon the heresy, as they 
call it. But he knows that the German Protes¬ 
tants are a thorn in the emperor's side, and he is 
taking pains to keep the point as sharp as pos- 


66 


BROTHER MARTIN 


sible. That is diplomacy. Francis has penetra¬ 
tion.” 

Luther is breathing heavily. The air is thick. 

“And your cause is greater far than the cause 
of Francis of France. Your end would justify 
all means.” 

Luther is bending over, as though suddenly 
recognizing his adviser. The visitor’s voice soft¬ 
ens down to a whisper. 

“And you understand, Martin, nobody need 
to know of the commission excepting one or two 
trusted men.” 

With a jerk Luther rises, and flings the ink 
bottle at the satanic intruder. A crash wakes 
him. Bewildered, he hears his Katie chiding, as 
she points to a black spot on the wall. 


MAKING TIME 


HE speedometer and the clock had a quar¬ 
rel, as the automobile was standing near 
the curb. 

“You just keep time, ,, nagged the 
speedometer. 

“I'm up to the minute,” the clock defended. 

“Yes, but you just keep on ticking in the same 
old way, no matter how fast men drive.” 

“What do you do?” 

“I measure their speed. They never go ahead 
of me. I keep up with them. They can't go too 
fast for me.” 

“They never get ahead of me,” echoed the 
clock. 

“Never get ahead of you? Why, you are not 
keeping up with the times.” 

“The times never get ahead of time. It takes 
time to keep up with the times.” 

[67] 








68 


MAKING TIME 


“You are trying to be funny.” 

“No, I am serious. You register speed; I 
register time. You keep up with men's leisure or 
hurry. I keep up with the great clock God es¬ 
tablished in the heavens. And they never get 
ahead of that. Some time or other they must come 
to time. People are speeding through life, but 
they are not making time.” 

“I see you are a preacher.” 

“What you see is mostly second-hand preach¬ 
ing. But study me, and you will hear the sun, 
moon, and stars preaching through me.” 

“I think I can figure out what you mean.” 

“I am reminded of a story my grandmother 
told me. It was a fine old pendulum clock, an ex¬ 
cellent timepiece. It keept time like a sun-dial. 
One day the little boy of the house unscrewed 
the weight of the pendulum, just to see what would 
happen. And the pendulum hurried like mad. 
The second-hand sped around. Also the minute- 
hand. The boy could even see the hour-hand mov¬ 
ing. 

“ ‘Mother,’ he cried, ‘come and see the clock 
making time.’ 

“But the mother chided the boy. She knew 
that the clock was out of time. The heavenly 
bodies, morning, noon, and night, summer and 


MAKING TIME 


69 


winter, pursued their stately way in spite of the 
mad haste of the clock.” 

“It had lost its weight.” 

“Exactly. And just so men that hurry 
through life in a mad rush have lost their weight. 
They disregard those eternal things of the soul 
that lend weight to life. They may be Jabals, Ju- 
bals, and Tubal-cains, but they lack the balance- 
weight that keeps them in time with eternity. 
They are out of harmony with God as the clock 
was out of harmony with the sun.” 

“Then, if men were in harmony with God, 
you and I would have no quarrel.” 

“No.” 

The conversation stopped, for the master of 
the car hurried out of the house, and quickly 
stepped into the machine. His hands trembled 
as he cranked the car and drove off. The 
clock smiled sadly as he saw the haste of the mo¬ 
ment recorded not only on the speedometer, but 
in the nerve-centres of the man's system, to be ac¬ 
counted for in days to come. 


ELIJAH 

HE dry reeds crackled as they parted, and 
startled the ravens. Elijah looked up, 
and saw a bland and courteous face that 
seemed out of harmony with the wild 
scenery of the Cherith. He dimly remem¬ 
bered. As the man stood before him, his dress 
announced a courtier from Samaria. 

The stranger smiled, while Elijah’s features 
remained adamant. What good news could be ex¬ 
pected from the court of Ahab and Jezebel? 

“Don’t you remember me?” the courtier be¬ 
gan ingratiatingly. “Don’t you remember Ethbaal 
Ben Joseph, the friend of your boyhood? My 
father married a woman of Sidon. Don’t you re¬ 
member?” 

Elijah nodded his head. He remembered. 
How hateful the marriage had been to his people! 
But since then—why, even the king had married 

[70] 





ELIJAH 


71 


a Sidonian princess. Something in Elijah’s atti¬ 
tude made Ethbaal keep his distance. He did not, 
however, lose his composure. 

“You remember how we roamed together over 
the fields of Tishbe,” he continued. “And the hills 
of Naphtali. And you, even you, loved to hear my 
mother tell of Sidon and its wonderful ships.” 

Elijah trembled. 

“Now, listen, Elijah.” He took a step nearer. 
“I want to tell you something. And for the sake 
of our friendship and the great cause of Israel, I 
hope you will attend and be reasonable.” 

The prophet’s silence was not encouraging. 
Yet the speaker continued. 

“I have come from the queen.” 

Clouds gathered on the forehead of the 
prophet, and his eyes flashed lightning. 

The messenger sat down in the shade of a 

rock. 

“Now don’t look so angry, Elijah,” he said 
suavely. “Really, the queen thinks a great deal of 
you. Your sterling loyalty to the cause you rep¬ 
resent commends itself to the favorable attention 
of everybody who is at all able to appreciate the 
finer things of life. And you may be sure her maj¬ 
esty is able to do that. Elijah, she is one woman 
in a million. It is too bad that two strong char- 


72 


ELIJAH 


acters like you and the queen are opposed to each 
other. It isn't natural. You two ought to work 
together.” 

He paused. 

Elijah was studying the thin rills of the 
brook. 

“If you knew her better, Elijah, you would 
admire her, believe me. She is the daughter of a 
great king, and she is greater than her father. 
She comes of a nation that is known for brilliant 
daring, and I believe she is as brilliant as any of 
them. She is a good queen. You ought to see 
what she does for religious worship. Her 
prophets and priests do not suffer want. Ah, you 
ought to see her, Elijah, when she appears at 
court functions. She loves jewelry, but she is the 
jewel. The king is all right, too. Mind you, I'm 
not saying anything disloyal of him. But the 
queen—!" 

Elijah beckoned the ravens, but they would 
not return. 

“That woman could rule a nation ten times 
as large. Thousands are willing to die for her. 
It is too bad you misunderstand her. I am sure 
if you understood you would relent. Think of 
what good you could do if you came to her court. 
By and by you would reform us all. There would 
be rain; the land would prosper; and you could 


ELIJAH 


78 


be the court preacher of righteousness. Think of 
it! I am authorized to say” (he raised his voice 
and gesticulated significantly) “that such a posi¬ 
tion would be open to you. There you could 
prophesy unmolested, even in Samaria, and work 
until the worship of Baal would gently merge into 
the worship of Jehovah. 

“Now you are just protesting. You have 
done that well, and we all admire it, the queen 
most of all. She admires you, and would like to 
have you nearer to her. So would Ahab, of course. 
Mere protesting does little good. Come to Sa¬ 
maria ; eat the queen's bread; and work for a real 
reformation.” 

He was cowed by Elijah's terrible look. How¬ 
ever, he soon recovered. He was a seasoned man. 

“As to the religion of the queen, Elijah, you 
must take a broad view of those things, don't be 
narrow, old boy. I'm half and half, you know; 
half Sidonian and half Israelite; and I am natu¬ 
rally inclined to take a broad view of things. Be¬ 
sides I like to ponder the deeper meanings of re¬ 
ligious rites and beliefs. Now there are Baal and 
Ashtoreth. They are not just images and groves. 
We must go deeper. Baal is the sun-god, and Ash¬ 
toreth the moon-god. The images represent them. 
And sun and moon? Why, they represent the 
great Spirit that controls them. ‘The heavens 


74 


ELIJAH 


declare the glory of God/ you know. You see the 
Phoenicians are not all wrong. One only has to 
look for the spiritual meaning of their rites. No 
religion is all wrong. I say we must try to find 
the good that's in them. And then start with that, 
and gradually develop it into something higher 
and purer. And you can trust the queen to help 
you if you come to court. 

“Of course, some of those rites are too—in¬ 
teresting ; but by and by—oh, you could do a lot! 
Just let the people feel that you're no kill-joy, but 
that you'd like to give them the finer joy. Some¬ 
thing like that. That would do more than just 
pouting out here in the wilderness and letting the 
country go dry." 

Elijah's voice was terrible. 

“Thus said the Lord," he roared. 

The reeds crackled again, and Ethbaal was 
gone. 

And the ravens returned to comfort the 
prophet. 


THE DRUMMER'S 
DISAPPOINTMENT 



]HE drummer sat down and studied his sur¬ 
roundings with the air of a man whose 
profession trains the eye as well as the 
tongue. 

They were somewhat unfamiliar sur¬ 
roundings. He felt he had lost touch. And yet 
they gave him a homely thrill. They reminded 
him of the days of childhood and youth, when he 
went to church with his parents and when his at¬ 
tendance at Sunday school often received honora¬ 
ble mention. 

What made him come to this convention of 
the Loyal League? What business had he, the 
busy drummer, in a gathering of Christian work¬ 
ers? 

Well, it was that letter. A letter from his 
wife, in which she had told him that the Rev. 

[75] 




76 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT 


Dr. Manville would speak at the convention of 
the Loyal League in Sanitown on the 26 th of No¬ 
vember, and as he expected to “make” that city 
at about that time, she would like to have him go 
and hear him. 

“He is fine, George,” she added. “He spoke 
in our church a few months ago, and I can never 
forget him. He is a man of deep spirituality, with 
just enough wit and humor to relieve the tension. 
Try to hear him, at all events.” 

That was the main reason for his presence. 
There were other reasons. He was fond of wit 
and humor. To be sure, he no longer made a col¬ 
lection of “good” stories; he was sick of them; 
but he still liked a fine joke. And that was not all. 
A man of deep spirituality.” Some people seem 
to think a drummer doesn’t care for such a thing, 
that he just wants to be gay. 

He muttered something to himself to express 
his opinion of such inadequate estimates. Just one 
word. It was not at all to the point; in fact, it 
was senseless. But it was the name of a very 
definite theological locality. 

At any rate, he was here and he had come to 
hear Dr. Manville. His train would not leave 
until half past ten, and if he left the meeting at 
ten oclock, he would be able to “make” it, espe¬ 
cially as he was staying at the Howard House, 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT 


77 


which was close to the station. So he settled down 
for a treat. 

The meeting was to have begun at eight 
o’clock, but it was fifteen minutes later when the 
leader faced the congregation with a broad smile 
and said they would have a season of song as the 
people seemed to be slow in coming. The singing 
was lusty, and the people came. 

At half past eight the leader rose to introduce 
the Rev. Mr. Catte, who was scheduled to conduct 
the devotional exercises. The name gave the 
chairman an excellent opportunity to tell a few 
good stories of the diminutive feline, which were 
received with mirthful applause, and Mr. Catte 
replied in kind. It was twenty minutes of nine 
when the devotions began. They were impressive 
and prepared the drummer for Dr. Manville. 

Then the leader rose, winked and smiled, and 
introduced the convention treasurer. Some of 
the girls giggled, and a number of persons fum¬ 
bled for their purses. 

The treasurer was famously facetious, and 
he lived up to his reputation. The drummer was, 
of course, glad to make his contribution, but he 
glanced at his watch. The collection being over, 
he looked up expectantly. 

The chairman smiled again, and congratu¬ 
lated the convention on having with it that eve- 


78 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT 


ning the Honorable John Moulton Smith, ex¬ 
governor of a neighboring state, and he was sure 
the audience would be pleased to hear from him. 
The secretary clapped his hands, and the conven¬ 
tion echoed a rousing applause. Governor Smith 
was a distinguished looking man, a man of prom¬ 
inence, especially as to nose and voice. 

He began by apologizing for the cold in his 
head, adding that a susceptibility to colds had been 
a weakness in his family for generations, but that 
it had never affected the temperature of the heart. 
(Applause.) Then he expressed his delight with 
being permitted to address so happy and hand¬ 
some an assembly, which statement evoked a re¬ 
sponse of gratification. After that he launched 
out upon the subject of his address: Thrift 
Stamps. If he was as generous in investing his 
money in Stamps as he was in giving time to the 
audience, he was certainly a paragon of patriot¬ 
ism, and the leader did not have the heart to stop 
an ex-governor. 

It was half past nine when he got through. 
Then followed a hymn. After that, the presiding 
officer announced that his keen eye had detected 
an old friend of the cause in the audience, Joseph 
O’Leary, and he felt the evening would not be 
complete without a word from Joe. 

So Joe came to the platform and held forth. 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT 


79 


He was utterly unprepared, and for a while he 
floundered. Then he happened to think of his ex¬ 
periences in the trenches, and the tickling rill of 
his oratory became a wide stream. The leader 
called his attention to the fact that his time was 
up, but Joe replied that for a full year, in the 
army, he had to obey, and that he made up his 
mind, once out of service, he would not take orders 
from anybody for another full year. This retort 
pleased the audience immensely, and the chair 
was defeated. 

Joe, however, was considerate, and stopped at 
ten minutes of ten. 

The drummer looked for his hat and over¬ 
coat. As he went up the aisle, the congregation 
sang two verses of “On to Victory.” He paused 
near the door long enough to hear the introduc¬ 
tion of Dr. Manville. More than that. Although 
it was a few minutes after ten, he lingered. Too 
bad! What he saw and heard, was just enough to 
whet his heart hunger. He wished he could stay, 
but he had to “make” the train. 


WHEN HE 

OMITTED SHADRACH'S ORATION 



HE Rev. John Bell was at work in his 
study, preparing a sermon. He was a 
young man, with a young man’s opti¬ 
mism, and a confidence that bordered on 
conceit. Would he make a success of this 
church? He had no doubt of it. Had he not 
drawn encouraging audiences almost every Sun¬ 
day since his arrival at Marston? And that was 
three months ago. To be sure, he lately had felt 
the prick of disappointment once or twice. But 
his enthusiasm had not yet been chilled. And the 
sermon he was finishing would certainly make a 
great impression. 


“I think this ought to make a hit,” he mused, 
lapsing into the vernacular. “The story of the 
three men in the fiery furnace is full of the dra¬ 
matic.” 


[80] 








OMITTED SHADRACH'S ORATION 81 


He read aloud his version of the dialogue be¬ 
tween the young Hebrews and Nebuchadnezzar. 
He had liberally amended the Bible record. Why 
not? Is there not homiletic license as well as 
poetic license ? When he reached the final defiance 
of the Hebrews to the king's command, he put into 
the mouth of Shadrach an oration which savored 
of Burke and Patrick Henry. Nor was he satis¬ 
fied merely reading this to himself. He rose to the 
occasion, halted before a man-size mirror, and 
tried the doubtful experiment of studying his 
oratorical fervor with calm and careful criticism. 

He was satisfied with himself. Turning from 
the mirror he faced an imaginary audience crowd¬ 
ing his little church. And let it be credited to the 
creative faculty of the brother that he was as satis¬ 
fied with his imaginary audience as his imaginary 
audience was satisfied with him. 

He was so enthusiastic that he gave an out¬ 
line of his sermon to Deacon McKnight, whom he 
met on the street. 

“Fine,” ejaculated the deacon. “Wish I could 
be there to hear it.” 

“You'll not be there?” 

“No; I'm sorry to say. My wife's folks are 
going to spend the week end with us, and it will 
be hard for me to get away. By the way, did you 
see Benson's new car? He'll be a speeder before 


82 OMITTED SHADRACH’S ORATION 


long.” Falling back upon Benson’s car was not 
retreat but strategy. 

John Bell was not much disturbed by the an¬ 
nounced absence of his substantial deacon. He 
would like to have him present, to be sure, but one 
man could well be missed. He was so elated over 
the prospective hit that he was hardly aware of 
the beautiful spring weather that set in toward 
the end of the week. And thus dawned a glorious 
Sunday. The evening before he had once more 
gone over his sermon, and during the night he 
had dreamed of Nebuchadnezzar, whom he had 
seen very distinctly, though with some occidental 
admixtures. 

Alas, alas! The church was not filled to suf¬ 
focation. The service was not even well attended. 
It was no distraction for the minister to count 
his audience. There were thirteen hearers pres¬ 
ent and some of them were not hearers through¬ 
out the entire discourse. His delivery was spirit¬ 
less, and Shadrach’s speech of defiance was 
omitted. He was not disconcerted by the number 
thirteen. One less would have made him feel just 
as bad. How can a man deliver to empty benches 
a sermon he has prepared for an expectant au¬ 
dience filling the church? 

“Where are the people?” he asked after he 
had agonized through the service. 


OMITTED SHADRACH’S ORATION 83 

“Oh, they are out in their machines, or play¬ 
ing tennis, or entertaining friends. Never mind. 
You , ll get used to that all right. They did the 
same thing to your predecessor. The first 
few months they came out of curiosity, but the 
attendance soon settled down to ‘normal/ Our 
folks aren’t stingy in their contributions, but 
they’re not strong on going to church. But you’ll 
get used to that all right.” 

And he did get used to it. Let it be admitted 
with shame, he did get used to it. At first, his 
heart rebelled, but by and by, slowly, impercepti¬ 
bly, there stole into his soul the deadly spirit 
of “What’s the use?” His sermons were prepared 
with ever less thought. Who cared? He became 
known as the most genial clergyman in town. A 
common saying had it that the Rev. Mr. Bell was 
idolized by his people, but that they seldom went 
to church. 


THE CURE 


R. Mortimer Mindfull had a theory that 
he could not sleep, and theories are stub¬ 
born things. It made him feel very bad. 
For one thing, his reputation was at 
stake. Until about a month ago, he had 
been an excellent sleeper, and his wife, with fine 
sarcasm, entirely and solely actuated by her love 
for him, as she averred, had often advised him to 
enter a Marathon sleeping race, predicting easily 
won laurels, unless the judges insisted upon noise¬ 
less engines. 

Besides, he realized the insomnia would un¬ 
dermine his health. The cause of the deplorable 
condition, which preyed upon his mind, had not 
yet been ascertained, although several experts 
were working on the case. One said coffee; an¬ 
other, after exhaustive interrogations going back 
about six generations, was sure it was the after- 

[84] 





THE CURE 


85 


effect of bibulous indulgences of an ancestor. Let 
it be said, however, that they did not spend too 
much time on the investigation of possible causes; 
rather did they proceed vigorously to experiment 
with probable remedies. 

The tonics and nerve exercises, the latter very 
taxing, such as describing circles and semi-circles 
with the index finger without a jerky movement, 
had so far been of no apparently beneficial effect, 
mainly because Mr. Mindfull was impervious to 
suggestion. His wife would assure him that he 
had slept, but he always triumphed by affirming 
he was positive she had been sleeping the whole 
night through. 

“How could I know that if I had slept? I 
tell you I didn't sleep.” 

And she was quiet. That was victory for 
him, to be sure; but his song of triumph, sung to 
a tune of his own, always ended in a minor key, 
to the words: “I know I have not slept for a 
month.” 

One night, he heard a voice calling him, about 
two thousand three hundred and sixty-five miles 
away. He listened; he listened intently. Was 
this one of the mysterious messages from Mars 
he had been reading about, or was there something 
in spiritism after all ? 

The voice spake again. It was calling him. 


86 


THE CURE 


Now it seemed much nearer. He strained his 
ear. Then he heard it again. He started from 
his pillow, for this time it was close to him. 

‘Tor goodness' sake, didn't you hear that 
door-bell ?" It was not a spirit; or rather, it was 
a spirit that was very dear to him. 

“Door-bell!" he echoed, in a very unspiritual 
way, though nevertheless spiritedly. “What are 
you talking about? I ought to have heard it. You 
know I don't sleep." 

“Well, it did ring. Get up and see who is 
there!" 

“Now, my dear—" 

He was going to say a good deal more, and 
the “dear" was like the icing on devil cake, but 
just at that moment the door bell gave forth a 
clear, sharp call to duty. 

Mr. Mindfull ejaculated something that 
drowned the “I told you so" of his wife. This 
was very unchivalrous, for what will become of 
the human race if man becomes so coarse as not 
to bow in dignified acquiescence to woman's “I 
told you so." 

At any rate he slipped into his slippers, 
hastily donned Mrs. Mindfull’s dressing gown, and 
descended the stairs. We had better say he stum¬ 
bled down the stairs, for he had a hard time keep¬ 
ing the hem of his garment above his ankle and 


THE CURE 


87 


the sleeves from reaching out beyond his hands. 
The gown completely enveloped his body, and the 
mesenger boy was reminded of some of the pic¬ 
tures he had seen in a History of Rome. 

The telegram was important, but not enough 
to throw Mr. Mindfull into hysterics. Even his 
poor, tantalized nerves stood the test. In fact, 
after he had turned it over to his superior who 
claimed she had a right to know, his thoughts re¬ 
verted to the insomnia problem. 

He certainly must have been asleep. Mrs. 
Mindfull's contention had been confirmed by the 
statement of the messenger that he had rung the 
bell twice. 

Now what had he been doing when the bell 
rang the first time? He must have been sleeping. 
He could not deny it. And yet he had been sure of 
not having slept for a month. And if he had been 
mistaken in this instance, why not in others? It 
was quite possible that he had been sleeping more 
than he thought he had. That certainly was com¬ 
forting. His health was not as bad as he thought 
it had been. In fact, he felt better. His condition 
seemed to be much more hopeful. The obsession 
of a month felt the expulsive power of a new 
conviction. Something seemed to dissolve in Mr. 
Mindfull's brain; something seemed to relax. 
Then again there was a fusing. He was conscious 


88 


THE CURE 


of levitation. He was being wafted through a mil¬ 
lion or more miles of purest ether. It all lasted 
just a minute or two when a voice brought him 
back to the realities of blankets and pillows. 

“For goodness' sake, stop your snoring. It's 
time to get up, anyhow, and look after the fur¬ 
nace.” 

He opened his eyes, blinked, and saw it was 
daylight. 

He knew he was cured. 


GOING HOME 


certain man had a large family. And 
he had said to his son, “You see there 
are too many of us. You are strong and 
bright, and the world is full of oppor¬ 
tunities.” 

And not many days after the son left his 
home. He traveled many miles, and found a posi¬ 
tion in a distant city. 

He worked hard, and became wealthy. 

When, after fifteen years of incessant toil, he 
took a vacation, he heard the cow-bells in the 
meadow, and he longed for the old home. 

He said to himself, “I'm going home.” 

Then he thought of the riches, and he added, 
“And I am going to dazzle them with my wealth.” 

And he journeyed home in a fine limousine, 
enjoying all the comforts that money can buy. 

But when they left the state-road, and he saw 

[89] 





90 


GOING HOME 


an old chimney rise above the brow of the hill, he 
said to the chauffeur, “James, you stay here with 
the car. I am going to walk home.” 

He took off his coat, and he did not mind the 
dust of the road. He would fain have bathed his 
feet in the brook and walk home barefoot. 

He felt like crying, “Father, mother, I don't 
want to come back to you as the wealthy man; I 
want to come back to you as your boy." 

When he reached home, his brother did not 
recognize him; but the mother rushed out of the 
kitchen and called him by a pet name of his child¬ 
hood, which he had forgotten. He dropped his hat 
and his coat to rest in her arms. And the father 
came out of the barn, and his heart was in his 
hand. 

It was long before he remembered James. 

Likewise we want to forget the daubles of life 
when we approach the Father, and just be His 
child. 


A YOUTHFUL FANCY 


HE rich young ruler had grown old. He 
still had great possessions; more than 
ever. He was resting on the roof of his 
country home, in the shade of a curtain 
of rare design. He was charmed with the 
view of fields and groves and mountains, and the 
blue waves of the sea. So were the servants, but 
they did not dare to take their eyes off the master. 

A messenger arrived and salaamed low. 

“Jehovah is good, my master,” he exclaimed. 
“Thy ships have reached the harbor of Joppa, and 
all is well.” 

And while he was yet speaking, there came 
also another. 

“Jehovah is with thee,” he greeted. “Thy 
caravan was attacked by Arabians, but thy men 
beat them off, and only Nahum was slain. The 
spices are safe, and not a camel was lost.” 

[91] 







92 


A YOUTHFUL FANCY 


And while he was yet speaking, there came 
also another, a craftsman, bearing a parchment 
roll. He bowed humbly. 

“Thy palace on Mt. Carmel is almost finished. 
The storm that uprooted trees in the park left no 
mark on the marble. The house is built on a 
rock.” 

“House built on a rock? Where have I heard 
that before?” The eyes of the rich man became 
dreamy, but not for long. Even while he re¬ 
flected another messenger arrived. He bowed 
with courtly grace. 

“Hail to thee, master. Good news. Nero has 
heard of thee. Thou wilt hear from him.” 

“What other news from Rome, Philip?” 

“They are persecuting the Christians.” 

“The Christians?” With a gesture he dis¬ 
missed the messengers. “The Christians.” His 
lips scarcely articulated the word. But there came 
with it a misty recollection of a prophet of Na¬ 
zareth, whom he had once asked: “What shall I 
do to inherit eternal life?” 

He smiled. “A youthful fancy.” 

And his mind reverted to the obsession of 
ships and caravans, and palaces, and Rome. 


HE FELT THE STARS LOOKING 
AT HIM 

HE Rev. James Murgatroyed rose on tip¬ 
toe and looked for his friend, the Rev. 
Thomas Spencer. He had seen him come 
into the minister's Monday conference 
and had recognized him at once, though 
they had seen very little of each other since their 
college days in Wooster. 

Now that the meeting was over and the clos* 
ing hymn was followed by the hubbub of a hundred 
trained voices greeting one another in pulpit 
tones, he looked for Tom. Ordinarily he would not 
have to rise on tip-toe, for he was a tall man; 
but Tom was a little fellow, and he was bound 
not to miss him. 

“There's a fine little coffee parlor on Broad¬ 
way, not far from here," Jim suggested after the 
first ecstasies were over. 

[93] 





94 


FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 


Tom agreed, moreover, as he would not dare 
to interfere with the arrangements of those of his 
brethren who were evidently born to lead. Say¬ 
ing this, he drew twelve cents from his vest pocket 
and glanced meaningly up at his friend's athletic 
height. 

Mr. Murgatroyed deprecated with one hand 
and drew Mr. Spencer out of the crowd with the 
other. 

When they faced each other over the linen 
that shimmered bluishly in the softened light, 
Tom began the story of his life, not, however with 
absolute fidelity to historic consecutiveness. In 
fact, it was haphazard, now about his revered an¬ 
cestor who had come over in the Mayflower, and 
now about his eldest boy, a prodigy. But the de¬ 
sultoriness of the recital did not interfere with 
the continuity of the flow. 

“Hold on a minute," Jim interrupted as the 
waiter brought the coffee. “I want to tell you 
something about myself. I may make a change.” 

“Where to?" 

“South Lebanon, Pennsylvania.” 

“South Lebanon ? A suburb of Lebanon; 
isn't it? On a spur of the Pennsylvania. Am I 
right?" 

“That's it." 


FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 95 


“I know that church. I was there at one time 
when McPherson was the minister.” 

“McPherson? I never heard of him.” 

“Oh, that's about ten years ago.” 

“Oh!” 

“I can give you a few pointers on that church. 
You know the churches in that neighborhood 
don't change very much.” 

“I know, the elder, Dr. Bruce, wrote it was a 
church of established character.” 

“Bruce? Bruce? No, that's not his name. 
I'm thinking of an old elder I met there. Let's 
see. What was his name? I remember him well 
now. Face like granite and eyebrows like bushes. 
What was his name? I have it. Burns. That's 
it. I remember him well. He's very proud of 
being a descendant of John Knox.” 

“Is that so?” Murgatroyed returned the 
cup to the saucer, and while his guest began to 
dissect and deposit a delicious piece of cake, he 
wrote on a slip of paper that Burns was a descen¬ 
dant of John Knox. 

“What else do you know of the church?” 

“Oh, I remember it very well. They have a 
lot of Dutch people in it. Fine folks they are. 
Steady as the needle. They're slow in loving a 


96 FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 


newcomer, but if they once love him, they'll love 
him for good." 

“Go on. What else?” Murgatroyed made an¬ 
other note. 

“There’s one man there—good man, too— 
he’s developed a strange fondness for the Old Tes¬ 
tament Apocrypha. You’d better read up on Mac¬ 
cabees and so forth.” 

Murgatroyed made a few hieroglyphic dashes. 

“Anything else?” 

“I can’t think of anything just now. Just 
that they’re fine people. Some of them country 
gentlemen who like to hear about metropolitan 
life.” 

They talked on for a half hour, after which 
Tom plead an engagement. He would, however, 
be anxious to await Jim’s verdict on the congre¬ 
gation as well as the congregation’s verdict. He 
was on his vacation, which he always took in Oc¬ 
tober, and would stay in New York for a few 
weeks. 

When Murgatroyed was back in his study in 
Newark, he took the history of Scotland from 
the shelf and began to read the account of the 
struggle between John Knox and Mary Stuart. 
Hastily he jotted down his impressions, his imag¬ 
ination creating a South Lebanon audience with 


FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 97 


Mr. Burns as the central figure. Under such his¬ 
toric stimulus as was furnished by the scene be¬ 
tween the Elijah of the North and the beautiful 
queen, the sentences rolled off his fountain pen 
to his own evident satisfaction. 

“That isn't bad," he complimented himself 
after he had read it aloud. “But I think I'll add a 
few lines from The Cotter's Saturday Night. That 
ought to impress the old elder." 

“And now something to please the Dutch.” 
He turned his revolving book-case for a volume 
of Motley's History of the United Netherlands. 
After browsing for a while, his eyes chanced upon 
the name of William of Orange. 

“The very character," he smiled to himself. 
He read the account of the siege of Leyden, and 
the heroism of William the Silent made him feel 
volubly rhetorical. His pen raced over five pages. 
The flow of ink being occasionally impeded by 
some temporary defect, the little outbursts of 
temper as he ejected spouts of ink on the carpet, 
which fortunately was a linoleum, helped to set 
his words afire with temperament. 

He sighed as he reviewed. 

“That's kind o' fine," was his self-felicitation. 

He then consulted the Apocrypha. For a 
while he was undecided as to whether to use the 


98 FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 


heroism of Judas Maccabeus driving the Syrian 
host to cover in five successive victories or the 
truculent bravery of Judith slaying Holoferness; 
but, after standing at the window for a minute 
and vainly looking for an oracle from the scud 
of the sky, or the passersby scanning the clouds 
and buttoning their coats, or the jangling street 
car, he finally decided on Judas as most compatible 
with the tenor of his other illustrations. 

“And now for a bit of Metropolitan life,” he 
mused. “Well, I can think of nothing better than 
that parade when the Sixty-ninth came home. 
First the furled flag and the slow beat of drums. 
Then the wounded, and at last the endless rows of 
Young America passing under the Victory Arch. 
I am sure they did not see anything like that in 
Lebanon.” 

He left the desk and dropped into the Morris 
chair, where he closed his eyes and endeavored 
to fuse John Knox and William of Orange, and 
Judas Maccabeus and the Victory Arch into a 
composite harmony when suddenly he jerked up 
with a start. 

“Why I haven’t chosen my text yet.” 

Some ministers there are, to be sure, who 
are so audacious as to preach without a text, but 
Murgatroyed was conservative enough to eschew 
such ultra-modern escapades. Besides, he was to 


FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 99 


preach a trial sermon, and in that case one had 
better not deviate too much from established cus¬ 
tom. So he hunted for and finally succeeded in 
finding a text that was sufficiently comprehensive 
and elastic to admit of the use of all of his stra¬ 
tegic illustrations. 

He had expected to leave on Friday, but a 
funeral service detained him, so that he did not 
start until Saturday morning, and the change of 
trains at Harrisburg caused a delay of several 
hours. However, the trip was delightful, and his 
mind alternated between noting the beauties of 
the scenery and allowing his thoughts to drift into 
random but fine dreaming, which, also, was a 
preparation for the morrow's work. 

It was dark when he arrived. Dr. Bruce, his 
host, had received the telegram and met Mr. Mur- 
gatroyed at the station. The pleasure was mutual, 
and the Franklin car—which was new, for the 
doctor had recently married—soon brought them 
to the cottage whose chimney waved the smoke 
plume of welcome at the minister. 

He had little opportunity to draw information 
from his host, for the doctor had to excuse him¬ 
self several times to attend to patients. Besides, 
the trip had made him tired and he longed to go 
to bed. 

From the window of his bed-room he saw a 



100 FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 


lane of cottages, and at the end of it a church 
whose spire was outtowered by the mountains in 
the distance. Here and there lights were blind¬ 
ing through the trees on the hillside, and he felt 
the stars looking at him. Nature seemed to have 
pressed her finger to her lips, saying to the 
stranger: “Be still, and know.” He forgot about 
Scotland and Holland and the Macabees. Rather 
did he have a touch of the mystic feeling of them 
that gained all by yielding all. 

In the morning, however, he awoke to the 
necessities of the campaign. At the breakfast, he 
adroitly, as if casually, questioned Mrs. Bruce, a 
young woman of promising proportions and will¬ 
ing confidences. 

“I understand, Mrs. Bruce, quite a number 
of your members are of Dutch descent; I mean 
Hollanders.” Thus he began to find his range. 

“Why, no; not many,” his hostess answered 
musically. “There's the Van Steens, the Hornes, 
and the Arembergs. Nice people. The Van 
Steens will come to church in their new automo¬ 
bile, I guess. Mr. Van Steen is in the real estate 
and lumber business, and the doctor tells me he 
has mining interests. Now, the Arembergs.” She 
stopped, for the minister had stopped eating and 
stared at her. 


FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 101 


“Will you have another cup of coffee, Doc¬ 
tor ?” she asked solicitously. 

“No, thank you, Mrs. Bruce,” he replied with 
less color in his voice. “But tell me, is Mr. Burns, 
the old elder, still living? A friend of mine told 
me about him.” 

“Mr. Burns ?” She shook her head. “There 
is a Mr. Burns here, but he is just a recent arri¬ 
val. He’s working for the Standard Oil Company. 
Very pleasant man to meet, and an elegant 
dresser. But he is a young man.” 

Murgatroyed wiped his forehead with his 
napkin. 

“No; that can’t be the Mr. Burns my friend 
referred to. He must be an old man now, and he 
is very proud of being a descendant of John 
Knox.” 

Mrs. Bruce laughed. Such a melodious laugh. 

“Now I understand. That’s Mr. Jonathan 
Burns of the East Lebanon church. Ours is the 
South Lebanon church, you know. Your friend 
must have confused the two churches. Yes, I 
know Mr. Burns. Everybody within six miles 
around here knows Mr. Burns. I know him well 
because the East Lebanon church was my church 
before I was married. It's a good church, too. 
And Mr. Burns is a fine man. He wants to have 


102 FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 

his own way, that’s true, but it’s usually a good 
way. 

“If you can stay here a few days you are likely 
to meet him. And maybe you will meet Mr. 
Greer, the Sunday school superintendent of East 
Lebanon. We all liked him, although we used to 
giggle when in his funny way he would tell us by 
all means to read the Apocrypha.” 

The doctor entered. 

“Mr. Murgatroyed,” he interrupted, “I don’t 
want to hurry you. But if you would like to say a 
word to the Sunday school before the church serv¬ 
ice, I think we shall have to get ready to go.” 

“Certainly,” the minister answered, like one 
in a daze. 

Excusing himself, he went up to his room. He 
closed the door and dropped into a chair. There 
he sat for fully five minutes and stared at the 
washbowl, or rather through the washbowl to 
something far away. Slowly he took the sermon 
from the pocket of his Prince Albert coat, glanced 
at a few pages, and then deposited the carefully 
prepared manuscript in his suit case. 

But why not preach the sermon? What if 
the Scotch heir to greatness was not there? What 
if the Dutch were in a small minority? What if 
the church was different from what he had been 


FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 103 


led to presume? Did not those illustrations ad¬ 
mit of cosmopolitan application? Up and doing! 

No; he could not. The disappointment had 
torn something from his eyes. He was disgusted 
with the worldly strategy in writing the sermon. 
A voice within, to be sure, reminding him that 
even ministers may be wise as serpents, and to 
please all men in all things that they may be saved 
had a noble precedent; but he shook his head. He 
felt the stars looking at him again. 

He rose, donned his coat, and after an inad- 
vertant glance at the mirror, descended the stairs. 

The children in the Sunday school he told the 
incident of a little girl, poorly clad, who had 
looked wistfully up at the train when it stopped 
for a few minutes near a hamlet. Somebody took 
an interest in her and handed her an apple out of 
the window. She stammered thanks and then 
asked her benefactor to please cut it in two so 
as to enable her to share it with a companion who 
looked just as ill-fed. 

He wondered what he would preach about. 
He knew he could not deliver the sermon he had 
prepared. He knew he was above it. That was 
not his message; certainly not for today. But 
what would he say? 

As the organist played the prelude, a text 


104 FELT STARS LOOKING AT HIM 


flashed through his mind which years ago had be¬ 
come one of the anchor passages of his life: “The 
Son of God who loved me and gave himself for 
me.” It was surprising how quickly the skeleton 
was formed and how rapidly it was covered with 
living flesh. He preached on the beauty of sacri¬ 
fice. He began with the Victory Arch and the re¬ 
turned soldiers marching under it. He spoke of 
the thousands who had laid down their lives, of 
the cross bearers of all ages, of Livingstone's heart 
buried in Africa; and in the second part he 
painted the holy beauty of the Man of Sorrows. 
It was a soul yielding to inspiration and pouring 
itself forth to self-forgetful abandon. 

Six months later, a school teacher told him 
he had made three grammatical errors in that 
sermon, but she had not become aware of them 
until the following day. 

He stopped without a formal conclusion. The 
professor of homiletics would have criticized, and 
the eyes of his hearers seemed to say: “Go on.” 
He could not go on. He had painted the cross 
until he saw it, and he felt like worshiping. He 
bowed his head and prayed. 


CHEAP 


1 C1JLJ) NNOUNCEMENT was made by the chair¬ 
man that the state convention would meet 
at Charlottesburg, and that it would be 
well to have the society represented. 
Would not somebody volunteer? 

“The fare is fifteen dollars for the round trip, 
and the total expenses will amount to about 
twenty-five dollars.” He spoke as one having au¬ 
thority. 

There was a pause, and much silent thinking. 

“I wouldn’t mind going,” thought Sam 
Browne. “Must be great. Fine trip, too. But 
twenty-five dollars would make a dent in my bank 
account.” According to the expression on his face 
he would have qualified for the position of certified 
expert of income-tax intricacies. An expenditure 
of twenty-five dollars, especially for altruistic pur¬ 
poses, was a serious matter. 

[105] 




106 


CHEAP 


“I’d love to go,” mused Flossie Perkins. 
“Nice to meet a lot of nice people. But I’d rather 
have that mauve dress I saw in Madame Trudeau’s 
window today. The one with the Nile-green trim¬ 
mings.” She looked adoringly up at the ceiling, 
and then more adoringly at the mirror in her 
purse. 

“I guess it’s up to me,” the president said to 
himself. “But business first, and we’re too busy.” 

Then Old Faithful rose. 

“Well, if nobody else goes, I guess I’ll go,” she 
said simply. She was tall and strong. Her 
friends remarked about two of her habits, for she 
was mature enough to have a few mixed habits. 
One was her smile that would come unexpectedly 
and endow the serious cast of her features with 
a beauty that was distinctly spiritual. The other 
was a way she had of brushing her dark hair from 
her forehead. It stood for clearing the deck and 
getting ready for action. 

Her decision was applauded. The members 
nodded to one another, as though saying, “You 
might know.” 

Old Faithful was popular, especially with the 
younger set, whom she had often helped in pre¬ 
paring papers and other work. It was strange 
what fun a person could have doing serious work 
when Old Faithful helped. She was still young. 


CHEAP 


107 


Friend and not-friend would have resented any 
intimation of her being an old maid. In fact, 
some believed she would always remain young. 

John Raymond asked for the floor. He was 
a recent accession to the society, but a keen ob¬ 
server through glasses that glistened immacul¬ 
ately. 

“Mr. Raymond has the floor.” 

“Well, I just want to say, that is, I just want 
to say, that I think—of course, that’s just my idea, 
you know—I think anyhow that we ought to pay 
the delegate’s expenses, at least her fare.” 

There was a pause for twenty-three seconds, 
and much violent thinking. This was followed by 
earnest whispering, frilled with giggles. 

Then Sam Browne arose. He squared his 
shoulder, caressed an early clearing on the top 
of his head, and looked for a moment as though 
he might release a Patrick Henry oration. In a 
most unparliamentary manner, however, he 
turned on the nervous Mr. Raymond. 

“Are you going to furnish the money?” he 
blurted. 

Mr. Raymond blushed. 

“Why, no,” he stammered. “I thought, that 
is, I thought, we might take the money out of the 
treasury; or else it seems to me, anyhow I think 


108 


CHEAP 


so, it is just my opinion, we might chip together 
out of our own pockets.” 

It was evident Mr. Raymond needed two feet 
to stand on. He tried very hard to stand on one 
foot only, first one and then the other, but the at¬ 
tempt proved a complete failure. When he sat 
down he wiped the beads of moisture from his 
brow with Mrs. Manning’s veil instead of his 
handkerchief, which did not add to his popularity. 

The meeting resolved itself into a committee 
of the whole without consent of the chairman. The 
latter turned to the secretary for advice but on 
seeing her pretty teeth try to bite the pencil in 
two, while her eyes studied invisible stars and her 
hair curled rebelliously, he forgot about the meet¬ 
ing for a moment; even two moments. 

Above the subdued surf of animated discus-: 
sion could be heard the voice of Flossie Perkins. 

“If it comes to having the expenses paid, I 
guess there are others.” 

She said it in a whisper that was distinctly 
heard by the cat which had strayed into the room 
through the window and now blinked at the meet¬ 
ing from the sill. When she heard the last re¬ 
mark, she washed herself vigorously. 

At last order was restored, partly through the 
efforts of the chairman who had “come to” and 
now pounded the table with a fist that was used to 


CHEAP 


109 


wielding a heavy fountain-pen, and partly by the 
voice of Old Faithful. The latter part was four 
fifths. 

“I move to lay this matter on the table,” she 
said. She cleared her forehead for a few imper¬ 
tinent wisps, and her eyes looked more penetrating 
than ever. “Or better, since there was no motion, 
let us fire it under the table and forget it. Fm 
going to pay my own expenses. 

“And now, while we're talking about money, 
let me speak to you of the Tenement Fund. We 
must not forget it. The need is great.” 

She talked on, and they listened. Sam 
Browne admired her with eyes and purse. Pres¬ 
ently he took out his note-book and pen. 

When Old Faithful had finished, he rose and 
asked for the floor. The chairman assured him of 
that privilege, realizing the futility of refusing, 
in view of the fact that Sam took possession of a 
considerable portion of the floor wherever he 
stood. 

Sam did not merely rise; he rose to the occa¬ 
sion. 

“There was no motion made to pay the dele¬ 
gate's expenses,” he began, “and for that reason 
we cannot well do anything about it; that's sure. 
But I don't think we ought to let the chance go 
by without doing something. Not only say nice 


110 


CHEAP 


things outside, but do something right here. Yes, 
Mr. Chairman, do something.” (The chairman 
nodded vaguely.) “And therefore I move to adopt 
the following resolution: 

“We, the members of this society, convened 
for a regular meeting, on this twenty-fifth day of 
October, in the year of our Lord 1923, do hereby 
and herewith seriously and earnestly express our 
high appreciation of the noble, unselfish, self-de¬ 
nying, and splendid services rendered this society 
by our much-beloved delegate to the state conven¬ 
tion, and we wish her happy and glorious hours 
and days on the trip and at the convention.” 

“Second the motion,” trebled and bassed a 
number of voices. The enthusiasm was unani¬ 
mous, and the resolution was carried without a 
dissenting vote. 

The cat, however, yawned, sang a sad song of 
one note, and leaped out of sight. 


MORE TIME FOR HERSELF 


RS. Sperry sighed. 

“It is work, work, work, from morn 
to night. I haven't a moment for myself. 
Housework certainly is slavery. Why 
don't those men of genius think of some¬ 
thing to make life easier for us ? Here the minis¬ 
ter tells us to spend at least a half hour in quiet 
communion every day. But how will I get in the 
half hour? And servants are expensive—when 
you can get them.” 

That evening her husband announced that he 
would have electricity installed, and would make 
her a present of one of the improved electric 
sweepers. 

Well, it was great, and Mrs. Sperry was de¬ 
lighted. It was such a labor and time-saving in¬ 
vention. Now at last she was able to take in a 
matinee or two a week. 






112 


MORE TIME FOR HERSELF 


But the matinee devoured more time than 
just the performance. There was the dressing, 
and the hours spent on the way. And then it was 
absolutely necessary, once in a while, to have a 
confidential chat with the dressmaker. 

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I wish I had a lit¬ 
tle more time for myself. Just to be able and sit 
still and come to myself.” 

One morning the expressman brought a new 
device, with the compliments of Mr. Sperry. An 
electrical dishwasher. Not of the old-fashioned 
kind that have long been on the market. Some¬ 
thing altogether new. A machine that would 
wash and dry the dishes. All the human hand 
had to do was to put the dishes into the receiver, 
fill it with water, cover it up, and turn on the 
current. 

Mrs. Sperry rejoiced. She had no difficulty 
in persuading her husband to crown his kind 
benevolences by taking the dishes out of the ma¬ 
chine and stacking them away. She convinced 
him that baby would hold him in higher esteem 
for being so good to mama. 

But why hurry? 

“Now I can be in time for the first film in 
the movie. Mrs. Fudge has often asked me to go 
with her. Of course, I have been there, but Mrs. 
Fudge told me I have to be regular to get the real 


MORE TIME FOR HERSELF 


118 


benefit. She says the movies are so human. They 
bring the real life close to us.” 

But she had to hurry, poor woman! 

“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “this life is killing. 
Not a moment for myself. My head is in a whirl. 
And the beautiful pictures so stir my emotion. I 
just do wish I had a little more time just to come 
to myself.” 

A great invention stirred the household 
world just at that time. Mrs. Sperry read and 
gasped delightedly. 

“Isn’t that great?” she exclaimed to her hus¬ 
band, handing him the paper. 

He read with increasing interest. It was 
indeed a wonderful thing. A machine about the 
size of an oil-stove. It could be carried from room 
to room. It looked so innocent, but it was filled 
with chemicals so delicately and dynamically ad¬ 
justed that when connected with an electric cur¬ 
rent, they would draw unto themselves and de¬ 
posit into a refuse pocket every particle of dirt 
in the room, doing the work of sweeping and dust¬ 
ing. “Easywork” was the name of the clever de¬ 
vice. The house-wife would take it into the room, 
attach the wire, turn on the current, and then 
leave. In a half hour the room would be im¬ 
maculate. 

It was a marvel. Of course, it was expensive, 


114 


MORE TIME FOR HERSELF 


but Sperry loved his wife dearly. He knew it 
would save time and labor, and give his darling 
a few hours a day more for herself. 

When the “Easywork” arrived, he almost re¬ 
gretted being present, for his wife’s gratitude was 
oppressive. 

She certainly was happy. It meant so much 
more time for herself. 

And she joined a euchre club.— 

Poor Mrs. Sperry! 

The name, of course, is fictitious. The real 
name is humanity. 

With every labor, and time-saving invention 
we become more fretful and restless, and we have 
less and less time for the one thing needful. 


THE WISE ONE 


HE Wise One sat in the shade of the palm. 
Old men said their fathers had told them 
that the tree was older than the Wise 
One. 

“Did you see Him? ,, he asked, in a 
voice that echoed centuries. 

“Yes, we did,” the men answered. They 
were tired. Their feet and sandals were dusty. 

“And did you feel the power?” 

They smiled; and one of them, a young man, 
laughed. 

“We did just as Martha told us she did,” the 
spokesman reported. “Each one of us took his 
turn. We waited until the Prophet was sur¬ 
rounded by a crowd, we came up from behind, we 
touched the hem of his garment. Just as she told 
us. But we felt nothing like the power of which 
she speaks. Benoni, the fool, thought he felt 

[115] 





116 


THE WISE ONE 


something, but he is a fool. And he did not do as 
we told him to do. He listened to the Prophet's 
words and forgot himself." 

The Wise One was silent. 

“We were scientific," the spokesman con¬ 
tinued. “We tabulated our impressions. And we 
have come to the conclusion that Martha did not 
tell the truth. If she felt the power, why did not 
we? We did just as she told us she had done.” 

“But how was she cured?” 

The spokesman shrugged his shoulders, and 
his eyebrows hinted at dark powers. 

“Did you indeed do as she did ?” the Wise One 
asked again, after a pause. 

“Exactly as she told us. We waited until the 
people thronged about him, then we came up from 
behind, and we touched the hem of his garment.” 

The voice of the Wise One became deeper, 
unearthly. 

“And had you felt the need of him?” he asked. 

“No,” the spokesman wavered. “We were 
making a scientific investigation.” He coughed. 

The Wise One dropped his eyes and sat very 
still. And in the long silence that followed, one 
after the other of the men stole away. 


THE PALE FAITH 


R. Hiram Meeke was a devout man. He 
was the foremost surgeon of Charlton. 
Nature had endowed him with a love for 
the mysteries of the human body as well 
as with a keen eye and a steady hand. 
But he was interested in other mysteries also. The 
tension of his daily task was often relieved by in¬ 
dulging in the devotions of the mystics. 

He was a man of faith. God would make all 
things well, he was sure. People loved the tall, 
spare doctor. His white hair and mustache made 
him almost venerable, especially when his eyes 
shone with a deep, deep light. 

One evening, after office hours, a committee 
waited on the doctor. It was a committee of 
three: Rev. Mr. Beckett of the Presbyterian 
Church, the Rev. Dr. Burns of the Methodist 
Church, and Mr. William Atwood, president of 

[117] 




118 


THE PALE FAITH 


the Atwood and Martin Motor Co. The Martin 
motors were famous. 

Dr. Burns acted as spokesman. With his 
ready flow of words he urged the doctor to join 
them in a crusade against the vile performance 
in the local moving picture theatres. 

“They are bad,” the reverend gentleman ges¬ 
ticulated. “They are vicious when they are openly 
obscene, and they are insidiously bad when they 
assume a sentimentally good appearance. You 
know it is true, doctor. And something has to be 
done, unless we are willing to forfeit our reputa¬ 
tion for a high standard of decency.” 

His little, pompous figure grew two inches 
while he spoke. 

Dr. Meeke smiled a beautiful smile, and his 
eyes feasted on distant verdures. 

The Presbyterian minister remained seated. 
His size was impressive enough even in a chair. 
He spoke in a matter-of-fact way. His statement 
was strong and incontrovertible. Something had 
to be done. 

Some people called Mr. Beckett dry. He 
didn't have much gravy, to be sure, but his meat 
was always well cooked. 

Mr. Atwood was a man of few words. In 
his younger days, he had been an amateur prize 
fighter, billed as “Still Bill.” 


THE PALE FAITH 


119 


“Better join us,” he said, stiffening his jaw. 
“We need you.” 

Dr. Meeke came to. 

“Do you know,” he said mellowly, “I have 
learned to leave all such things to the Lord.” 

They argued; they pleaded. 

“I am sure,” he ended the debate, “that if the 
Lord wants the ‘movies' reformed, He will find a 
way. I am willing to leave it to Him. If people 
ask me for my opinion, I shall give it, of course; 
but otherwise I shall leave it to the Lord.” 

The men were disappointed, but not discour¬ 
aged. And through the months that followed they 
fought hard. They fought an entrenched and de¬ 
termined enemy. But they won. The courts de¬ 
cided in their favor, and the legislature passed 
a new law ordering a stricter and more competent 
censorship. 

The fighters celebrated in a quiet way. When 
they returned from the hotel, where they had 
dined, they met the doctor. 

“Well, doctor, we won,” doctor Burns hailed 

him. 

The doctor smiled benignly. 

“Wasn't I right?” he said. “I told you the 
Lord would find a way to reform the ‘movies' if 
He wanted to do so.” 

They stared at him, while he gazed far out 


120 


THE PALE FAITH 


to where abstraction from the realities of life 
pales into nothing. He cranked his car and drove 
off. 

“Beautiful faith, after all,” Dr. Burns said, 
as though trying to make himself believe it. 

“Beautiful?” questioned his colleague. “Yes, 
beautiful, but pale.” 

Mr. Atwood said nothing, but in his heart he 
rededicated himself to the faith that had been in¬ 
carnadined through the service and sacrifice of the 
last months. 


THE BOASTERS 


I 

OMEBODY had thrown the old parasol 
into a corner of the beach, close to the 
pier, where, together with boards and 
posts, between which it was wedged, it 
formed a perfect shelter from the sun. 
The spot it covered was damp and moldy and 
wormy. 

Thither stole Worry, the old hag. She loved 
the spot for its seclusion, and a chat with the para¬ 
sol was a treat, though they often quarreled. She 
taunted it with the faded advertisements that 
were still legible on its sides, though the gaudy 
colors had faded; and the parasol sneered at the 
deep furrows in Worry’s face. All this, while 
men and women and children were gamboling in 
the surf. 

“How large is the sun?” the parasol asked. 

“Really, I don’t know,” Worry answered, cau- 

[ 121 ] 





122 


THE BOASTERS 


tiously, for she knew that it was designing. “I 
wonder if anybody really knows.” 

“Is it larger than the earth?” 

“Oh, much larger. I heard a man say that 
it was more than two thousand times as large.” 

“More than two thousand times as large,” it 
repeated. “Think of how powerful it must be. 
And yet—” 

Was it the breeze from the ocean or pride 
that made the sides swell? 

“And yet what?” Worry sneered. 

“And yet I keep the sun away. That pow¬ 
erful being has not touched this spot for months. 
I kept it away.” 

Worry was silent. Of course she could not 
gainsay the claim of the parasol, and it was not 
envy that silenced her. Rather, was she reminded 
of her own power. 

“I think I am more powerful than you,” she 
contended. 

The parasol leered at her questioningly. 

“Yes, I am,” Worry affirmed. “For I can 
keep away something more powerful than the 
sun.” 

“What?” 

“All about us is the love of God. It is just 
eager to get into human hearts and bless them. 
There is no sorrow for which the love of God has 


THE BOASTERS 


123 


not comfort and healing. And yet I can keep it 
away.” 

“You? Do you know you sometimes seem 
very little?” 

“Yes. But a little worry can keep the peace 
of God away. Just as a little thing like you can 
keep the sun away. Ah, the tales I could tell you. 
I am very ,very old, you know. All over the world, 
and throughout more centuries than history 
knows I have done my work. Little Worry! But 
it robbed men and women of peace.” 

“Why did they not chase you away?” 

“They invited me when their faith was 
weak, and the longer I stayed the stronger I got.” 

The sky had grown dark, and in the storm an 
unusually high wave washed the parasol from its 
mooring. Worry fled; but she will keep on boast¬ 
ing so long as faith is small. 


THE CHURCH 


HE keeper of the sacred fire sat by the 
altar on the mountain, and mused. He 
was sad. 

Day and night the torch bearers 
came to the altar to light the torches with 
which to kindle the fires that warmed the homes 
of the valley and illumined the night. 

From his aerie he watched them and saw 
they were selfish and careless. They thought 
more of the pretty flambeaux in their hands than 
the cheer they could bring to others. 

The keeper was sad. Oh, that he might go 
down to warm and brighten the valley. But the 
fire, the sacred fire! Who would guard it? He 
dare not let it die. 

One afternoon, he noticed gross neglect, for 
his eye was keen. Fires were left unkindled. He 

[124] 







THE CHURCH 125 

knew that men would grope in the dark and stum¬ 
ble in the night. 

Ablaze with zeal, he seized a torch, tipped it 
with the holy flame, and hurried down the narrow 
path. He fought the offenders, and kindled the 
fires. 

Homeward, the hills echoed his praises. He 
was proud as he reached the height and saw the 
fires below. 

But as he turned to the altar, his heart was 
chilled. 

Alas, the sacred fire had died. 


THE SPIRITUAL MAN 

H, yes, come right in. 

You say you're from the Fairview 
church. I know that church. It's up on 
the ridge. Get a fine view from up there. 
Fairview is right. Hear you have a good 
preacher up there, too. I hear people talking 
about your church. 

I join your church? Well, no, I'm not that 
kind of a man. You see I believe in a spiritual 
religion. I am a spiritually minded man. I have 
no use for organizations. My soul feeds on a re¬ 
ligion that is above all institutions and organiza¬ 
tions. No doubt, others need these material helps, 
but I am above them; I would be hampered by 
them. You are doing good work, I know, and we 
are one in the spirit, but I believe in a spiritual 
religion. 



[126] 





THE SPIRITUAL MAN 


127 


You are glad to meet a spiritually minded 
man? Thank you. 

Why I don’t come to church, even though I 
don’t join? Well, it’s for the same reason. You 
see, the highest, the spiritual religion, ought to 
be above all songs and sermons. Spirit commun¬ 
ing with spirit. Others, of course, need the out¬ 
ward helps, some even need pictures and candles, 
but I—I am a spiritually minded man. 

Come for the sake of others? Well, I don’t 
know. I am afraid I’d have to sacrifice too much. 
It’s all right to stoop down to raise others, but 
when one is used to the more rarified atmos¬ 
phere— 

What’s that? Contribute to the cause? Why, 
my dear, how can you speak of such coarse things 
as gold and silver after I have explained that I am 
a spiritually minded man. Believe me, there is 
too much money and machinery in the church 
now. Too much reliance upon the market. It is 
sordid. 

“But— 3 ” 

Ah, there goes the dinner bell. You’ll have 
to excuse me. I am as hungry as a bear; and be¬ 
sides the dinner bell is orders, and we must obey 
orders, you know. Good-bye. My best wishes. 


THE SMILE 


N the roof of his house in Anathoth, the 
old priest lounged with the air of one 
who was acquainted with every finesse of 
comfort. His couch was soft, and the 
draperies of the canopy were rich. His 
shrewd face was a study in smiles, befitting the 
corpulency of his body. Occasionally he reached 
for the silver cup, and sipped the palm wine like 
an epicurean. He was an influential man. 

Before him stood Jeremiah, the young 
prophet. 

He did not mind the rays of the sun, hot even 
in the late afternoon. Plain was his garb, and 
plain the hood, shading lean features, set with 
luminous eyes. After a glance, a loving glance, 
at the famous hills of Benjamin, rising in a half 
circle to the west and northwest, he turned to his 
host. 

The priest sipped and smiled. His voice was 
musical. 



[128] 






THE SMILE 


129 


“I asked you to come to me,” he began, “be¬ 
cause I have something to tell you that is for your 
own good. You are the son of a priest, and I 
want to do all I can for you.” 

The prophet tried to smile in return, but it 
was hard. 

“I want to talk to you like a father,” the 
priest went on. “I want to tell you that you take 
things too seriously. You look like a man of sor¬ 
rows and acquainted with grief, full of lamenta¬ 
tions. You must learn to look at the bright side 
of things. Don't let the corners of your mouth 
sag. Learn to smile, smile, smile. Look at me.” 

He raised the cup, and there was a pause. 

“You know I am a man of affairs and respon¬ 
sibilities, and the burdens of my office are heavy. 
But I have learned to take things as they come. 
I take them with a smile.” 

The young man was about to speak, but the 
priest silenced him with a languid wave of the 
hand and a deprecating smile. 

“Life is sweet,” he continued. “Why not en¬ 
joy it? Judah is rich and prosperous. There is 
so much to be proud of, and to enjoy. Of course, 
there are poor, but there will always be poor.” 

His fingers and his eyes fondled the cup. 

The prophet was silent. He was struggling 
with a surge of sadness. How could he smile! 


130 


THE SMILE 


How could this priest before him smile! A film 
gathered over his eyes, illumined by a fire within. 
The surge found expression. 

“The stork in the heaven knoweth her ap¬ 
pointed times; and the turtle dove and the crane 
and the swallow observe the time of their coming; 
but my people know not the judgment of the 
Lord.” r r ' 

The priest raised his hands. There was an 
attempt at indignation, but his features hardly 
lost their bland composure. 

“Are you blind?” he expostulated. “Do you 
not rejoice in the sweeping reformation of our 
good king Josiah? The high places have been 
leveled to the ground; the Asherahs have been de¬ 
stroyed ; and the altars of Baal broken down; and 
the vestments of idoltary have been burned in the 
valley of the Kedron. The black-robed priests of 
Baal have made way for the white-robed priests 
of Jehovah. The reformation has reached even 
Ephraim and Manasseh, for Assyria is weak. Je¬ 
hovah be praised.” 

The film in the eye of the prophet glowed as 
he answered. Was it he that spoke or another? 

“Will ye steal, murder, commit adultery, per¬ 
jure yourselves, and then come into my presence 
into this house which is called after my name?” 

The priest lowered his voice. 


THE SMILE 


181 


“If you are not reasonable, you will be dis¬ 
liked. Already you have lost favor, and the priests 
are beginning to hate you. We want to keep 
things smooth, and your ravings are annoying. 
You go too far. You have prophesied the destruc¬ 
tion of Jerusalem and the temple. That makes 
me smile. The temple! The home of Jehovah! 
Impossible! Certainly not while Josiah reigns; 
and he is young. And if after us—” 

He shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and re¬ 
freshed himself. 

Long had the emotions of the prophet been 
repressed. Now they overwhelmed him. Like 
one possessed he poured out his predictions. 

“I tremble for sorrow. The walls of my heart 
will break. The enemy comes up in dense, huge 
masses, like clouds, his chariots rush on like a 
whirlwind, his horses are swifter than eagles in 
their flight. Woe to us, we are destroyed.” 

The flow of fervid eloquence did not cease 
until the passion had been spent. The sun was 
setting, and the hills were roseate, but on the face 
of the prophet perspiration mingled with tears. 
At last he stood as one waiting for a reply from 
the couch. When no answer came, he bent over 
to look. Alas, the priest was fast asleep, an in¬ 
fantile smile on his chubby face. 


MR. ALBERG’S WORRY 


R. Alberg sank into his Morris chair and 
furrowed his brow; not with the furrows 
of concentration, up and down alongside 
of the root of the nose, but the furrows 
of perplexity, lengthwise across the fore¬ 
head. He had reason to be perplexed. His little 
eyes shifted from floor to ceiling in search of a 
fulcrum. It was not business that worried him. 
No, no; his collars and shirts were always im¬ 
maculate, and he was as punctual as the usual 
laundryman. Whenever he did have to disap¬ 
point a customer, his face would take on so doleful 
an expression that the accompanying gesture was 
entirely superfluous. Besides, his sigh seemed to 
issue from a cavern that fed two hundred pounds 
of mortal flesh. He was forgiven, and the plain¬ 
tiff bowed apologetically. 

Now, Mr. Alberg’s worries were of political 
nature. Election was near and he did not know 
for whom to vote. Four candidates were in the 
field for the mayoralty, and it was hard for him 
to decide. Not that his case was that of most 
people who were perplexed because they read the 

[132] 








MR. ALBERG'S WORRY 


133 


newspapers. Mr. Alberg read nothing but the 
real estate news. Some day he hoped to have 
money enough to make the great venture. His 
wife would smile at him, but he did not see her 
benevolent grimace; for he usually had trouble 
keeping his glasses on his nose. Once indeed he 
had read about the election. That was in a scrap 
of a newspaper in which a customer had wrapped 
his soiled collars. But as it was during working 
hours he did not get very far, for his wife urged 
him on in so gentle a tone of voice that the little 
fox terrier lowered his tail and hunted a corner 
in the show-window behind the artificial palm 
whose fronds needed a dusting. 

He was worried because interests affecting 
his vote seemed to clash. 

“Now, there's Deems, the Republican candi¬ 
date. I ought to vote for him. He's a member 
of my lodge. It really won't do to go against 
him. Lodge members ought to stick together, and 
he treated us fine at the last meeting. And he 
sure does look elegant in his full regalia. 

“But then there's Conner, the Democrat. I 
wouldn't want him to know that I didn't vote for 
him. He's a member of my church. I ought to 
vote for him. Church people ought to do some¬ 
thing for each other. Of course, I don't go to 
church very often, and Conner don't either; but 


134 


MR. ALBERTS WORRY 


he gave us fifty dollars for our Fair last Novem¬ 
ber, and he put a big 'Vote for Me’ in our concert 
program. He’s a good fellow, too. None of these 
narrow fanatics. My, how he shakes hands with 
us fellows when he comes around. He’s all right.” 

The little eyes blinked. They looked at the 
picture of Abraham Lincoln on the old starch cal¬ 
endar. Was the figure of the martyr president 
growing? The eyes blinked again. No; it was 
the same old picture. 

‘Then there is Jack Brace on the Fusion 
ticket. He’s my wife’s cousin’s gentleman friend. 
They’re not engaged yet, but I guess they will be. 
I can’t slight him. My wife thinks he’s a fine’ 
man, and if I don’t vote for him—well, I may 
have to hunt another boarding house. I guess 
he’s a fine man at that, and it would be fine to 
have the mayor of the town in the family. One 
never can tell. I may get something out of that 
myself.” 

That picture of Honest Abe was growing 
after all. Taller every minute. Looked as though 
he might step out of the frame any moment. No! 
It was just an illusion. Yes! He was getting 
taller, and looking right at Mr. Alberg. No! Yes! 
No! Yes! 

Well, anyhow, there was Harcourt, who was 
running independently. He used to be a neighbor 


MR. ALBERTS WORRY 


135 


of the Albergs on Chestnut Hill. And a good 
neighbor, too. There was no spite fence between 
the Harcourts and the Albergs. And Harcourt 
had sent him a nice letter only the other day ask¬ 
ing his support at the polls. And when they met, 
Alberg had promised in a vague sort of a way. 
Not a binding promise, to be sure. It was this 
way. Harcourt was overjoyed to see Alberg, and 
called him “my dear old neighbor,” and intro¬ 
duced him as “one of the best men in town” to 
a man who was with Harcourt and who looked 
like a governor. And when Harcourt took Alberg 
aside and gave him a cigar and asked for his vote, 
even hinting that he would surely remember his 
old friends and neighbors, Alberg had answered, 
‘Til see what I can do for you.” And they had 
shaken hands so cordially that Alberg still felt 
the warmth of it. He didn't see how he could go 
back on an old friend like that. 

What was that? Abraham Lincoln, six feet 
four inches tall, leaving the frame of the calendar. 
With slow stride he steps over to where the laun- 
dryman is sitting. He stands before him with 
searching, melancholy eyes. Alberg feels uncom¬ 
fortable, aware of being collarless. But, no, that 
is not what the great Emancipator is gazing at. 

The voice is a blending of tenderness and 
earnestness. 


136 


MR. ALBERG’S WORRY 


“Why not do right?” the great spirit pleads. 
“The simple right. Forget yourself. Vote for 
the man who, in your honest opinion, will serve the 
cause best. With malice toward none, with char¬ 
ity for all; with firmness in the right, as God 
gives us to see the right.” 

Far, far away, the sound of a bell, as though 
on a ship sailing the infinite sea. Now again, but 
much nearer. Again and again. As Mr. Alberg 
awakes, he hears three more strokes of the clock. 
He rubs his eyes vigorously, also his nose, and 
comes to. Yes, yes. He is still in the old room, 
and Abraham Lincoln is still in the frame. But 
it is no longer the same room. He has had his 
vision. The simple right, regardless of social con¬ 
siderations and personal advantages! He looks 
at the candidates from a different point of view. 
He has made up his mind to vote right. 

From the kitchen comes a voice, musical but 
masterful. 

“John, did you register today? You know, 
this is the last day.” 

He jerks up with an exclamation that is com¬ 
plimentary neither to himself nor his wife nor 
any one else. He has indeed forgotten to regis¬ 
ter. He has been too busy thinking of possible 
advantages for himself. 


COVERING GROUND 


VERETT Leslie Rushgait was a devout 
man, after his own fashion; and, as this 
is the country of religious freedom, no¬ 
body interfered with him. His com¬ 
panions in the office, to be sure with com¬ 
placent conspiracy, induced him every Monday 
morning to relate his Sunday adventures, and his 
wife regarded him with a puzzling smile as he 
told his story with glowing eyes. He certainly 
“could cover ground and make time.” 

He rose early on this particular Sunday morn¬ 
ing. He knew it would be a busy day. After 
hasty ablutions and hurried attention to Sunday 
attire he bolted his breakfast in spite of Mrs, 
Rushgait’s protests, and prepared to start off on 
his trip. 

“Why, what are you talking about?” he an¬ 
swered his wife. “I'm going to hear an address 

[137] 





188 


COVERING GROUND 


by Dr. Samuel Isaacs, a converted rabbi. He's 
going to speak on The World War in the Light 
of Canticles.' He's great, I tell you; I wish you 
could come. Why, he's the same man I told you 
about a month ago. Don't you remember? I 
heard him speak on the prophecies of the witch 
of Endor at that time. Something occult, he 
called it. I think that's what it was. Maybe I'm 
mistaken. Maybe it was that Syrian I heard in 
the afternoon of the same day. I tell you Dr. 
Isaacs is great. But I'll have to hurry. He ad¬ 
dresses the Higher-up Bible Class in the Bronx 
at nine o'clock.” 

He did hurry. Elevated to Park Row, and 
subway to the Bronx. How he chafed at delays! 
How he condemned Sunday amusements because 
of the crowded cars and platforms! 

He got out at One-hundred-and-forty-ninth 
Street. After making sure of the direction he 
struck out vigorously, and soon reached the 
church. The lecture certainly reflected credita¬ 
bly on the resourcefulness of the rabbi, though 
much of the time was taken up with the pathetic 
story of his conversion. 

Rushgait thought it was fine. But he had 
no time to shake the speaker's hand, for the morn¬ 
ing service in his own church would begin at 
eleven. He hardly expected to be there on time. 


COVERING GROUND 


139 


Nor was he. While the congregation was bowed 
in prayer, he stood in the vestibule and told the 
chief usher about Canticles and his plans for the 
afternoon. The sermon was on the loaves and 
fishes; and, as the beneficiaries of the miracle had 
tried to make the Master king, Mr. Rushgait was 
able to find some connection between the loaves 
and fishes and Canticles. 

Dinner was a hasty affair. Indeed, a slight 
frown marked the face of the head of the house¬ 
hold, for Mrs. Rushgait was not quite ready with 
the meal when he arrived. However, he controlled 
himself and spiced the conversation with a few 
references to great speakers he had heard, all of 
which was listened to patiently by his wife and 
rapturously by his daughter, a little girl of ten 
years. 

“Won’t you go to Sunday school with me this 
afternoon?” the little one asked. “Some of the 
teachers are sick, I know, and you could help.” 

“Is that so?” He looked up, always reluctant 
to refuse her. “Well, maybe I will. But I’ll have 
to leave early, I want to hear Dr. Burns in the 
Fifth Avenue Temple this afternoon. That may 
be the last chance I’ll ever have. They say he’s 
going back to Scotland next week. I couldn’t af¬ 
ford to miss that, you know.” 

He did not stay longer in Sunday school than 


140 


COVERING GROUND 


absolutely necessary, but he made his presence 
felt, in fact, so much so that the teachers near him 
complained they could do nothing with their 
classes. The lesson was on the parable of the 
Good Samaritan. Mr. Rushgait gave rein to his 
imagination as he spoke of the poor victim; he 
held forth vehemently against the priest; and 
after he was through with the Levite he found 
he had no time left for the Good Samaritan. 

He excused himself, and ran for the elevated. 
Arriving at the Bridge, he stumbled down to the 
subway and manfully checked a Boanergian out¬ 
burst when he just missed the train. He was late, 
of course, for the service in the Temple, and he 
had to stand in a line more than a block long. By 
and by he was admitted, and even found a seat. 
The quartette finished, and Dr. Burns began to 
preach. It was a sermon on the prayer vigils of 
Christ. The great divine urged the people to take 
time for the quiet hour. 

Toward the close of the impassionate appeal 
Mr. Rushgait grew fidgety, and he looked at his 
watch. It was getting late, and he was bound to 
hear Dr. Boneau at the Y. M. C. A. in Brooklyn. 
He always got so much out of Dr. Boneau's ad¬ 
dresses. So, bowing an excuse to the lady sitting 
at his side, and kicking over the gentleman's cane 
next to her, he passed out as quietly as he was able 


COVERING GROUND 


141 


to do in his hurry. This time it was the subway 
straight to the Y. M. C. A., and he was in time to 
hear the last part of the address, including the 
peroration and the applause. He was thankful 
for having heard even that. It was, of course, on 
the League of Nations; and the beauty of the ad¬ 
dress was that, while the speaker was emphatic 
on all sides of the question, he really did not com¬ 
mit himself. There was nothing like an attempt 
to introduce politics into a Sunday afternoon ad¬ 
dress. 

Well, Rushgait was late for supper, although 
he was out of breath. At first his wife adminis¬ 
tered a gentle reproof, but on seeing his spent 
condition she asked him how it all was. 

“Fine,” he answered. And that was about 
all he could say. 

He had promised his wife to go to church 
with her in the evening and the time was not far 
off. So they went, and the little girl was happy 
to have her father. Rushgait did not hear the 
entire discourse, for his head was drowsy; but, 
when the minister quoted a verse from Canticles, 
his mind began to review the good things of the 
last twelve hours, and so he thought the sermon 
a fitting close of a perfect day. 

That night he dreamt. He saw the Shulamite, 
the king, the lad with the loaves, and the Good 


142 


COVERING GROUND 


Samaritan rushing along in apparently aimless 
haste until they heard a voice saying, “Be still, 
and know that I am God.” 

“What kind of a Sunday did you have yester¬ 
day?” he asked his wife the next morning. 

“I spent an afternoon in quiet communion,” 
she answered. “It was beautiful, but I missed 
you.” 





















































































































